Conviction
by Dominick Disaster
Summary: Hunting Albert Wesker was as natural as breathing for Chris - but maybe his reasons for such a relentless pursuit aren't as simple as he likes to think. Wesker/Chris
1. Prologue

**Title: **Conviction**  
Series/Disclaimer: **I don't own Resident Evil. I just like to pretend I can write fanfiction about it.**  
Pairing(s): **Albert Wesker/Chris Redfield**  
Story Theme: **Without You - Breaking Benjamin**  
Summary: **Hunting Albert Wesker was as natural as breathing for Chris - but maybe his reasons for such a relentless pursuit aren't as simple as he likes to think.**  
Author's Notes: **So, a while back I played Resident Evil 5. I got pretty obsessed, loved Chris and Wesker as _characters _but thought I'd finally met two characters who I didn't think would slash. I even told a friend of mine, "They're great rivals, but I don't think they'd work too well together."

Silly me.

I struggled for a plot line after a while. Grasped at straws, fought with logical and illogical ideas, read other fanfiction - some inspiring, some instilling doubt, and some just plain_ weird_. I wrote some crack for them because it was all my brain could come up with, thought it was fine, walked away and left it at that.

And now, here I am, working on something serious and something I _hope_ is seriously great. It's complicated and messy, it's psychological and physical. But I've analyzed, considered, examined, written, erased, walked away, and come back several times before settling on this idea. This idea that I really want to know makes sense outside of my own head and this idea that I'm _proud_ of. It isn't completely original, I've gotten some inspiration from wonderful authors all over the spectrum, but then again, what is entirely original these days?

Either way, I hope you enjoy.

- x - x - x -

Fate was practically telling him to do it – and not in such simple, breathy suggestions as signs or a trickle of wind that pulled him towards one fork in the path over another. It was screaming in his ear, calling to him with every hiss emitted by bubbles of lava that were bursting around his place on the slab of hardened rock. Each pop was like a miniature explosion in his ear, sending up welcoming curls of smoke that threatened to singe his arm as he stretched it out over the illuminated, molten earth. All he had to do was relax his fingers and it would gladly give Chris's ashes a home within its inflamed embrace. _Drop him_. It was so simple, so easy. Let him go and he couldn't interfere again, he couldn't show up at the most inopportune times to ruin months, _years _of work. How dangerous could ashes be?

But it was almost too simple, too easy. For eleven years the man had pursued him like an annoying, unwanted puppy - ruining plots that were only intended to advance humanity and generally being a nuisance. No matter where he went, what he tried to do, he never questioned that Chris Redfield was somewhere along the trail. At times that had been such an asset, so useful to him, but this had drawn a line, snapped the final twig into a thousand pieces and Albert Wesker was _not _amused anymore. His eyes flicked briefly towards the fallen bomber without losing his grip around Chris's throat. The heat of the volcano undoubtedly ruined his precious Uroboros, or was in the process of making it un-salvageable – without a suitable host it couldn't even wail in its dying agony. A prodigal child murdered before meeting the world.

Death was too _fair_.

He felt Chris's consciousness like a tremor through his arm, despite the fact he'd hardly moved save for a hand gripping weakly at the blonde's offensive wrist. As though startled, Wesker turned and threw him across the small section of rock into a wall created by a slightly higher mound of solidified magma. With a grunt the operative fell back to blackness, a breath leaving him in a pitiful half-sigh as he slumped to a useless pile of muscle again. His partner was no better off anyway, lying off to the side with one arm trapped somewhat awkwardly under her light weight – but Wesker could have cared less about Sheva. She was annoying, yes, but it was no personal vendetta against him and if he disappeared her mission would end here, in Africa.

But Chris would continue to follow.

Without the other's body in his grip, he was suddenly aware of his own vague sense of weakness. Like throwing him had ripped out his adrenaline pumped organs the same way a bee loses its insides in a final defense maneuver. He was not so near to death, however, that he was about to pass out or collapse. The worst of it was the Uroboros that had been burned from his body by his slip into the lava, which had also left much of his skin charred. Even to him his ability to stand, to function at even half of a human level, was impressive. The acknowledgment of that feat was enough to make him walk forward and plant his boot against Chris's neck. Much of his clothes had burned away as well, splotches taken by fire and some sections melted to his skin, but he paid no attention to it. He was surprisingly used to pain.

"Self-righteous fool," he repeated, having said it on nearly every confrontation they'd had in these last waning hours that should have been the eve of humanity's Gensis. Chris's head slid back almost encouragingly when he shifted his foot, sorry he couldn't feel the brunette's Adam's apple and wind pipe the same way he had when they were against his hand. He wanted to feel the intricacies of the other's neck crush beneath his grip. He wanted it to reverberate all the way up to his shoulder and he wanted that feeling on his hands for the rest of his life. To live every day knowing that it was done not because he'd left it to someone else, but because he'd ended it, this eleven year game of fruitless tag, _himself. _That was what they both wanted, wasn't it? It was almost amusing how different they were, yet they both craved so desperately for the other to just drop dead. Though Chris's drive was so much narrower, his ambitions so short sighted. As if killing Wesker would fix the world and make it so rainy days and crying children could never happen again.

_Pathetic_.

But the idea of ending this in a way that was appeasing to Chris made his stomach churn with even more rage. While it was true that it would be easier to kill the agent, to just leave his body to the ashes for his friends and family to mourn over, he was hardly affected by what was easy. People with low standards wouldn't have desired so strongly to recreate the world, they wouldn't have made it as far as he did. No, what was _easy_ was the least important part of this decision. He wanted Chris to suffer, completely and totally, for all these foolish transgressions based on morals that he clung to like a child with a cherished blanket. More than that, he wanted to hurt him and everyone around him more than death ever could.

Because death was too simple, too easy, and too fair for Chris Redfield now.

And because Chris had messed up yet another plan, had ruined humanity's salvation and the new, better existence it could have had. There was nothing left of Uroboros now, but Wesker was _not_ going to walk away empty handed.


	2. Alone I Stand

**Title: **Conviction  
**Chapter Title: **Alone I Stand  
**Series/Disclaimer: **I don't own Resident Evil. I just like to pretend I can write fanfiction about it.  
**Pairing(s): **Albert Wesker/Chris Redfield  
**Story Theme: **Without You - Breaking Benjamin  
**Beta: **Palinka_femme at LJ  
**Summary: **Hunting Albert Wesker was as natural as breathing for Chris - but maybe his reasons for such a relentless pursuit aren't as simple as he likes to think.**  
****Author's Notes: **I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed, first of all. I really appreciate every single comment I get on this story more than you could ever possibly know. Keep up the encouragement and I won't be able to help but write more, promise.

This chapter is a little bit long (about 6,000 words) but hopefully it won't lose your interest. There's some real Chris and Wesker interaction, which I'm both excited and nervous for. Hopefully I handled it believably and you all enjoy it. I got a lot of help from my lovely beta when it came to Chris, I'd like to thank her for the fantastic ideas formally, so thank you, Natalie! This chapter might seem a bit filler-ish but it was necessary to make the story flow with an inkling of sense behind it.

So, without further rambling, enjoy~!

_Edit_: I added a bit more to this chapter after a reviewer pointed out some things that could be included to help keep Chris, well, IC. :'3

- x - x - x -

Waking up with a headache always seemed cliché when he could remember what happened before he lost consciousness. While it was logical, completely and totally logical, it seemed so annoyingly predictable when everything was considered. His memory was hazy as he scrambled towards consciousness, remembering above all else that he'd fallen asleep somewhere unsafe. A mind already trained for self-preservation was running through how many things didn't make sense right now, the first of which being that he'd been knocked out in a volcano and now felt more cold than anything. His bare arms tinged with goose bumps now that his brain could respond to the situation without sleep blanketing it. The operative, pained and confused, rolled onto his side and heard the distinct creak of springs shift beneath him.

His stomach felt like it was hosting its own circus and if Chris had eaten anything worth throwing up in the past 48 hours, he was sure his insides would have been all over that plan and the floor. The acids bubbled and churned unpleasantly and he moved his hand to it instinctively, curling up faintly like a child with a stomach-ache until it settled. The analogy of feeling like he'd been hit by a truck seemed like an understatement, but he swung his legs over the side of the bed anyway. While the entirety of his body felt like Jell-O, he knew all too well that resting wasn't an option until he had a handle on the situation. Forcing open his eyes made him realize, however, that the grip he would need in order to relax wasn't going to come easily. Not that it ever did.

It wasn't exactly a standard room and looked more like something pulled out of those ghost-hunting television shows where they visit asylums. The walls were bare and the bed seemed completely out of place within the almost claustrophobic space. He was reluctant to head towards the door on the opposite side of the room, figuring that this had already started off so well that it was going to be locked anyway. Instead he started groping for his gun or PDA only to find that the only things he'd been left with were his clothes – again, not a terribly surprising development. His knee pads were also missing, however, which seemed slightly odd.

Despite appreciating the room's dim lighting, he dropped his head into his hands and ground the heels as far into his eye-sockets as they could go. The pressure didn't help ease the headache, but it did seem to make the annoying cloud of grogginess disappear long enough to think about the last thing that had happened. He and Sheva had pretty much finished the job, dropping Wesker into an immeasurable amount of swirling lava where he couldn't get a decent foothold to climb back out. In his flailing, Wesker had knocked the two of them backwards and he felt the searing burn of impact spread across his skull before the orange glow of their surroundings turned black. Sure enough, as he ran his hands through the short brown strands he flinched as his fingers came into contact with an unpleasant and sensitive bump.

"Good job," he muttered to himself, lowering his hand and looking around the room. It didn't look like anything he'd seen around the BSAA headquarters, which ruled out the idea that he'd been resting in the infirmary wing. Pushing himself to his feet he finally walked over to check the door only to find it completely smooth and unwilling to open even with a decent shove that made his head throb unappreciatively.

"I wouldn't recommend getting a running start either," a voice all too familiar to him slithered in from the other side of the door. "It's locked quite effectively."

"Shit."

There were no windows around the room or in the door for that matter, and the only light provided was from the small gap at the bottom where it didn't quite touch the floor. Wesker must have been standing off to the side because there wasn't any light obscured, but Chris punched the door anyway. He didn't do it with any intention of hurting himself, but he still felt the tremor up his arm and it made him shudder as though a bunch of little spiders had been crawling along his nerves and suddenly disappeared into his brain. The thoughts were fragmented at best, but they were gradually coming together after hearing a voice that had only meant bad things in his past. It was as though there was a switch in the back of his mind that was flipped simply by hearing it, and now all the important things were drawn to it like a magnet.

Starting with the people that weren't in the room with him.

"Where are the others?" It was more a demand than a question, his brain gathering up the pieces that made his friends more important than his own life. Now that he knew who was behind it, there was no question he was fearing for their lives - particularly that of Sheva. She'd been knocked out as well, had Wesker taken her too? Thoughts of something much worse than being kidnapped by Wesker started to form, as if he were keeping note of them on a list, but he tried to shove them away.

"Others?"

"Don't play games, just tell me where they are!"

Agonizing seconds ticked off between them and Chris was fighting not to scream or throw himself into breaking down a door he knew he had little chance of destroying. His brain felt like it was trying to create two of itself in the most painful way it could find and though his adrenaline was up, he hadn't rested nearly long enough to be of any real use. He needed sleep and food before he'd be anything close to efficient again - but he knew if he could get through this door he'd try to strangle Wesker with his bare hands. Every second that Wesker hesitated to answer him allowed five more gruesome outcomes for his friends to pop into his mind.

"I don't know," Wesker finally conceded, "I have no interest in any of your comrades and left the girl unconscious in the volcano."

"What about Jill? And Josh?" He'd asked before being sure if he even wanted the answer - the news of Sheva was enough to make his stomach churn in something between rage, worry, and guilt.

"I told you, Chris, I had _no interest _in any of your comrades."

He wanted to argue that Wesker had already kidnapped Jill once, but the words wouldn't come to him. It sounded like Wesker hadn't taken anyone else and he got the feeling if he kept pressing he'd just get the same reiterated answer until Wesker got fed up and left. He wasn't sure why he didn't like that plan, maybe just because if Wesker left then that meant that he'd have nothing to do but think about Sheva. There was a chance she was still alive, his partners seemed to have a knack for surviving impossible odds. Just like when he'd heard about Jill, he wrapped his mind solely around that. She was _alive_, he just needed to confirm it.

His forehead dropped against the cool metal in defeat, exhaling a long breath and feeling too sick to bother continuing the fight for answers. His recent surge of panic and the feeling he'd had a boulder dropped on him made his entire body ache. He squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his jaw against the dead-end feeling of powerlessness and the realization that it was once again Wesker who was responsible.

"Why the hell can't you just stay dead?"

"Gods can't die."

Judging by the faint jump that overtook his body when Wesker responded, Chris hadn't been expecting to be heard. But it wasn't too surprising that Wesker's hearing would be heightened and, if he were in the mood for it, Chris would have cursed himself more for the oversight. While the reply was smooth, Chris noticed a faint difficulty to it - as though Wesker were having some trouble breathing.

"You're not a god, Wesker," he practically spat the name, pulling away from the door to shuffle back towards the bed. If he wasn't getting out of here any time soon, then he wasn't going to waste valuable energy by standing, "Your plan failed, remember? Just like all the others."

"A set back I have you to blame for, yet again, which undoubtedly brings up the question of why you're here to begin with-"

"Save it. I'm sick of hearing you talk."

He eased himself back onto the bed, keeping a hand over his stomach that was still flipping the imaginary food inside of it over. Some part of his mind was screaming at him that this was a bad idea and that he was being too calm for the situation, but it was lost in the rest of the nerves which were screaming at him for various different reasons. The only comfort he could take in this was that if Wesker really wanted him dead that badly he would have killed him already. Unfortunately it was a ridiculously small reassurance because there were a number of other _worse_ things that Wesker could have wanted from him. Something to test on was only the first that came to mind.

"Unfortunate," Wesker said, the contemplation in his voice making it come out somewhat more level than the previous exchange had been. "I suggest you get used to it."

"Oh yeah? Why's that?"

"Because my voice is the only one you're going to be hearing for quite some time."

The words themselves were bad enough, but when coupled with the natural arrogance in the other's voice it made Chris's skin do more than crawl. It practically writhed against his muscles which twitched to do exactly what Wesker had advised him against – a running start at the door. He rested his elbows on his thighs, wrapping one hand around the other and squeezing until it practically hurt. Not being much of a masochist, pain was just the thing he needed to keep him from trying to take the door off of its invisible hinges and hit Wesker with it. His jaw clenched tightly and he felt the tension run up to his temples – if the room hadn't been so cold he knew he would have been sweating by now.

"And what the hell does that mean?"

Wesker hesitated and Chris hated himself for practically being able to see him rolling the words around in his head. He was well spoken and too smart not to take advantage of the available time to word whatever he had to say just right.

"Despite your considerable work ethic, I think the BSAA will find it mandatory to consider you permanently retired after our encounter in Kijuju."

His mind couldn't completely wrap around the words at first, in part due to the pain and in part due to the fact he tended to take things quite literally. In situations where that was an asset, it made him able to pick up on details acutely. But Wesker rarely ever came out and said what he meant and Chris was just about to ask what the hell that was supposed to mean when the question answered itself for him. Within seconds he was on his feet and back at the door, this time his hand collided with the metal more solidly and his nerves wailed in agony at him for it, but he pushed it aside. The feelings that had surged to the surface had now become a tangled ball of anxiety in his stomach. Arms latched out to every organ they could find and started pulling them inward, making his insides shrink and contort to the point it almost hurt and his heart was beating furiously with the struggle.

"Dammit, Wesker! What the hell do you accomplish by keeping me here?"

He always asked even though he knew that Wesker would never give him an answer or, if he did, it wasn't a direct one. Wesker derived too much pleasure in keeping him five steps behind to bother sacrifice his own enjoyment. In this situation it became even less likely that he'd get an answer, because Wesker couldn't see the reaction for himself through the metal between them. So instead Chris heard him chuckle, garnering what enjoyment he needed from Chris's attempts at forcing his way out before the lengthy stride of his boots on concrete disappeared down the hallway.

All he could do was punch the door again.

- x - x - x -

Either he had gotten too much sleep over the expanse of time during which he was unconscious, or he was having trouble sleeping in general. He wanted to believe it was the former because he didn't like admitting that he had anything psychologically wrong with him. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that he had seen enough horror throughout his thirty-five years to last anyone a life time, but that didn't mean that it got to him. The BSAA shrink was always trying to talk to him, like Chris was some nut he could crack open and then prescribe pills to so the pain would go away. But Chris was never in any pain, not really, and he had nightmares but who _wouldn't_?

He tapped his fingers near silently against the spaces between his knuckles, both hands resting on the expanse of his stomach. Now that he was awake he realized the bed wasn't particularly comfortable and he didn't smell so great. It wasn't anything too distracting, but his mind was busy picking up on everything it possibly could and lodging it in some imaginary file somewhere as if it would be important later. He tried to make his fingers go still when he thought he heard something outside but all it did was cause his foot to start twitching. Eventually he gave up lying down and sat upright, legs crossed in front of him on the mattress.

Nothing about this situation was putting him at ease and his head was still throbbing, not assisting in his attempts at sleep. He struggled to think beyond his limited realm of ideas of why Wesker would have not only let him live, but gone through the effort of kidnapping him and faking their deaths. There was no way Wesker suddenly thought of the BSAA as a threat and even if he did, it was more likely that Jill would be the only operative to pursue them if they thought he was alive. He was a decorated member of the Alliance, yes, but they had missions around the globe to deal with and Wesker wouldn't have left a solid lead. All of that was pointless in the end, however, because the truth of the matter was that Wesker made it appear like they had both perished in the volcano.

His thoughts flicked back to what had happened, how sure he had been that Wesker wasn't going to escape and that the nightmare of his existence really was over. His shoulders tensed as he recalled Sheva – what had happened to her? Had Wesker left her alive or killed her and the possibility that someone might have seen what he was up to? The thought of another good agent, another good friend, dying…Chris shook his head and erased the thoughts like they'd been written on an Etch-A-Sketch. Dwelling on what had happened to his partner wasn't going to help him get out of where he was now.

Then again, at this point, it didn't look like much was.

Unexpectedly a shudder ran down his back, making his head give an unappreciative swell when it reached the top of his spine. Chris, used to trusting his gut instinct, temporarily abandoned thought to listen for the sound of footsteps or anything out of the ordinary silence the past few hours had brought him. Nothing stood out, but then, towards the end of the thirty-second testing period, he picked up on something. His shoulders tensed and he fell still, tilting his ear towards the door. Whatever it was it had a pattern, but it was far too soft to be footsteps. His next guess was a pulse but then he realized it was more like a guttural breathing – and it wasn't coming from the door at all.

He whirled around to see some type of malformed B.O.W standing behind him, though his glimpse was only brief as he fell off the bed and slammed his elbow and head into the concrete floor. No part of his sore body appreciated the additional abuse, or the fact that he insisted on pushing it to move even after the fact. He rolled twice, putting some distance between himself and the monster before jumping to his feet again. Somehow it just didn't seem unlikely that Wesker would have done that – but the terrifying thing was that he swore the room had been empty. How did he get the thing in here in the first place?

Another agonizing throb, determined to split his head in half, practically blurred his vision as he looked in the direction of the monster again only to find nothing was there. The space where the hulking figure had been was now completely empty, and the room entirely silent save for the protesting pulse in his ears and his own erratic breathing. He slumped against the wall and sank to the floor, but his eyes wouldn't lose any of their acquired wideness.

Somehow, he was totally alone.

- x - x - x -

It took a while after the first scare for him to be able to fall asleep without the paranoia of something jumping out at him. But thankfully, after the first one, there weren't many other creeping things in the dark to spook him. In his exhaustion, it seemed like his mind was too tired to even handle the usual nightmares he might have had. He was thankful for it.

Eventually, however, he woke up with a blueprint style map slid under his door and the words "Door is open" scrawled across a Post-It stuck to it. It was surprising, all things considered, because Wesker had him in the perfect spot to either kill him or experiment on him – which were the only two settings he assumed the psychopath to have. The idea of letting him out brought up all sorts of nasty possibilities, like him escaping or killing the arrogant prick. But in that single thought he remembered just how full of himself Wesker was and realized he probably wasn't considered much of a threat.

There was the chance that Wesker had time to recover for a rematch and considering Chris had no way to keep track of how long he had been in there, it was completely possible. After their argument, he hadn't been let out the next day, or the day after that, though truthfully his definition of days relied entirely on when he fell asleep and when he woke up. Without windows or a clock, he had little else to base the passing of time on and decided that, of all the things he could be concerned over, what hour he was walking around his room wasn't one of them.

Still, every time he woke up he felt a little bit more level-headed and attempted to think the situation through slightly more. There wasn't some great plan to be made, the flat room with its locked door wasn't particularly inspiring of an escape attempt, but at the very least he tried to assess what it was Wesker wanted by bringing him here. With little more to muse on than his confines, his thoughts went more heavily to the idea of experiments despite the fact that nothing really hinted that was the reality. Wesker hadn't even been back to see him since their first encounter.

Or, more accurately, he hadn't been back for conversation. Judging by the suggestion that no one else knew they were here, it seemed unlikely that he would have some kind of maid-service running around, so the fact that Chris woke up with food in the room implied that Wesker had at least been back. The first meal wasn't particularly grand, but it came with a side of painkillers and that was really all Chris felt he needed considering the headache had yet to go away. Hardly trusting of his old enemy, he'd tried to sit near the door to make sure the pills looked like their description only to discover that the label had been torn off. It meant another five minutes of debating what the hell the supposed medicine could be before he decided he didn't care because anything was better than his brain's attempt at division.

The next few "days" continued like that, though Chris wasn't given any more pain pills with his meal. Thankfully dehydration and hunger seemed to be the only problem and the continued supply of food and two bottles of water was enough to keep the headache from returning. In the instances when he could push the fact that Wesker was keeping him like a pet out of his mind, he actually didn't mind the situation. He could catch up on much needed sleep he'd lost over his time in Africa and was too tired to have nightmares – either that or the pills Wesker had given him were suppressing them. Either way, he wasn't complaining and just before the boredom got to be too much to handle, he woke up with that map in the same general location a tray of food would have been.

Blue hues focused on the door a good fifteen minutes after he read the little note, frowning at it as though it were going to attack him. Not only did he have no grasp on the situation, but he didn't know where he was or what could have been waiting outside of it. At least within the confines of this room he was somewhat safe and his worst threat was Wesker, who seemed less than willing to attack him. It also appeared unlikely that BOWs were just roaming the halls outside, but even the toughest one likely wasn't a challenge for the tyrant and maybe he just liked a little thrill in his dwellings. Chris really wouldn't have held it above him.

But if his stomach was any indication, the time that he was supposed to eat had already long since passed and the idea was that if he left he could find his way to a kitchen. Pushing himself to his feet he wandered over the door, standing off to the side in a trained maneuver so that if something was behind it, it wouldn't be able to jump him. He held his breath as he nudged it open, quickly drawing his hand back to protect it from an oncoming attack that really only existed in his head. Thirty seconds of silence and watching the stream of light that poured in from the hallway later, he was fairly certain nothing was going to happen. He flinched in the brightness as he stepped into the hallway, which seemed to be little more than a long section of rooms similar to his own. Going on the lack of sound alone they weren't inhabited – maybe Wesker hadn't been kidding when he suggested they were _completely _isolated. Not exactly a comforting thought.

Once his eyes adjusted he looked down to the map, noticing a few key places circled and a number scrawled in the top right corner.

"Great," he murmured, "My own horror movie. _Lucky_ _me_."

The places on the map were the same things provided for basic living apartments – bathroom, kitchen, and even something that was labeled "lounge." There was a fourth room circled but not assigned a label and Chris's stomach clenched to think what could have been waiting for him there. Besides, considering his hunger and the fact he had been in the same disgusting clothes for an undetermined amount of time, he decided that food and showering were his top priorities. Looking towards both ends of the hallway, he shortly discovered the elevator that had been circled and headed towards it. Naturally, however, simply hitting the button wasn't enough and he frowned, already on edge and willing to punch the first frustrating thing he came across. Before he could do so, however, he recalled the number scribbled in the corner of his handy little map.

Sure enough, the elevator gave an approving lurch and started pulling him towards the next floor up. He slouched against the back of the small box, crossing his arms and trying to think of anything this could have added up to. Wesker couldn't have wanted to kill him, or else there was no point in circling all the living spaces. It also seemed to rule out experimentation, since BOWs weren't exactly concerned with personal hygiene or making sandwiches. But what did that leave? If there was anything more unnerving than knowing what Wesker was up to, it was _not _knowing what he was up to. Despite all of the years of never having a clue until the last minute, Chris hadn't gotten used to the feeling. And it didn't look like that was going to change any time soon.

- x - x - x -

"Why didn't you kill me?"

The words seemed to surprise both of them. Maybe it was because they came out so quickly after encountering each other that one, or both of them, had been expecting a few moments of pause. But the second he saw the other face to face, Chris couldn't bite back the questions. He never could. He always wanted to know what the other was up to, what was going around inside that malicious head of his. Ultimately it was never anything he wanted to hear; never anything he wanted to deal with, but something that he had to stop. This was no different – Wesker hadn't turned him into ashes and he wasn't a B.O.W. So why?

Wesker broke free of his shock with a faint chuckle, laced with the same sort of intuitiveness that he had back in the Monarch Room. "_You haven't changed_," he'd said then. He was saying it again here and now, but with fewer words.

"You wouldn't comprehend my logic if I spelled it out on paper for you," he said, tilting his head towards the other. "So explaining myself is pointless."

He hesitated, frowning. Never in his life had he done well with being talked down to, which was part of the reason his stint in the military didn't work out. Natural defenses shot up through him and his mind closed around the first comeback he could come up with to counter. The first thing that flipped Wesker's remark on its side and negated the stupidity on Chris's part that he was insinuating.

"I'm too sane to have thoughts as twisted and _wrong _as yours are."

If Wesker had an inch of him that could have been offended by the monster he'd become, that would have stabbed. But he didn't, so Chris knew that his hesitation was just him musing over the right way to phrase his response. It wouldn't take long, but it did give Chris time to take in the other's physical state – which didn't seem to be as impeccable as usual. Most of his body was hidden in his typical dark clothing, indiscernible pieces melded together to one complete, black mass. But his sleeves were rolled up, exposing deep, purple-red splotches on his right arm. They resembled bruises except ten times worse than any bruise Chris had ever seen and practically melded to a single, uniform marking by the time they reached his elbow. He could only guess that it covered that entire side due to the fact that the same side of his face seemed afflicted with the same splotches. Were they left over from the Uroboros or leftovers of his regenerative abilities attempts at healing burns from the lava?

"My thoughts don't conform to your predetermined notions of what they should be so you naturally chalk them up to 'twisted and wrong.' That doesn't mean that's what they are, all it means is that's what you want them to be."

He didn't realize that he'd been staring until Wesker started again and he found minimal comfort in the fact the other didn't seem to have noticed either. Wesker's voice always had an annoyingly attention grabbing quality about it – Chris pegged it just on the fact the man was a psychotic threat. It was good to focus on the voice of someone like that; it helped him figure out where he should point his gun.

"If anyone thought that your ideas were right, then they wouldn't be trying to stop you from destroying the world," Chris replied, his fingers twitching for a sidearm that he didn't have. In something resembling fairness, Wesker didn't seem to be armed either, but if it came to a physical confrontation Chris still didn't stand much of a chance. His blows barely fazed Wesker, let alone do anything significant enough to gain any leverage. He wondered if those marks were any indication of weakness – maybe he wasn't at such a disadvantage after all.

"'They?'" Wesker cocked his head and Chris almost saw a flash of orange from beneath his sunglasses before it disappeared under the tinted plastic. "The only one that pursues me so purposefully is _you_, Chris. It's as though you think by destroying me the entire world will be set right."

"It couldn't hurt."

In that instance, Chris decided that the splotches across Wesker's skin were not at all inclinations of vulnerability. At the very least, the he still had that damned ability to dash forward faster than Chris's eyes could ever follow and he was startled to find Wesker so suddenly in his space. He took a step back, bracing himself for some type of offense and cursing that he hadn't been more on guard. Without a weapon there really wasn't a lot he could do anyway, but despite that he didn't think of himself as helpless. Even as the air rushed out of his lungs from the solid impact of the tyrant's foot against his chest he didn't think of himself as _weak_. Stupid, maybe.

"It very much could," Wesker sneered, "As you do have the most _irritating _habit of getting in my way."

He hit the opposite wall of the hallway with a thick crash and slid to the ground, his brain rattled and scattering the once coherent thoughts into bouncing fragments of confusion. The only thing he knew was that Wesker was still within proximity and had apparently lost his cool already. He blinked, struggling to disperse the unexpected pain that now blossomed across his bruised backside. It felt like he'd lifted his head quickly, but the tyrant was already well within range. A hand was coming towards him, but with dizzy vision he couldn't tell if it was aiming for a fatal blow or just to grab him. With a quick shove, he decided he didn't care and ducked under Wesker's arm. He didn't roll far, but Wesker wasn't usually the type to dart after someone he didn't consider particularly dangerous to his immediate health. Cradling a bruised chest and back, Chris must have been about as dangerous as an unconscious puppy.

The former BSAA operative scooted backwards across the cool floor, putting enough distance between himself and the inhuman male that he could clamber to his feet again. Wesker's voice sliced into his hazy mind, words connecting themselves while other thoughts still jumped around.

"Why is that, Chris? Why do you hunt me so _relentlessly_?"

"Because you've _lost it_, Wesker! You're trying to destroy the whole planet and I'm _not _going to let you kill billions of innocent people."

Wesker chuckled, rounding on him but not moving to allow himself within that personal bubble he had popped just seconds before.

"So you take it upon yourself to save the pathetic masses. Constantly playing the self-righteous hero and looking at the world through a black and white filter so everyone can be judged based on their actions alone."

Chris felt something more intense than rage swell inside him at that, his mind already piecing together Wesker's logic and wanting to silence it before it hung in the air between them, "I'm _not _like you!"

It was a weakness that he never admitted to himself – the fact that the other could always get under his skin and make him react before he knew what he was reacting to. Wesker had already deflected the fist aimed for his face and slammed his palm into the bruise forming from his previous kick by the time Chris snapped out of it. He was on his back again, coughing on the lack of air and rolling onto his side to push himself to his feet. The sound of the other's boots approaching from down the hallway echoed in his ears louder than his own heartbeat, and that didn't seem right to him at all.

"Of course you aren't," Wesker's voice was back to being that calm, almost amused sound that Chris was used to hearing from him. He hated it, and it was more than enough to make his leg swing up for the other's face. Anything to shut that god-awful sound off.

"You chased me long before Uroboros, Chris."

Wesker blocked the kick aimed for his head, shoving Chris up and over so he did a flip before colliding with the ground again. Chris barely dodged a foot aimed for his stomach by rolling to the side and getting to his feet.

"Before Africa and Spencer's estate."

He ran at the tyrant, adrenaline and fury going in his veins.

"Shut up!"

"Your pursuit was underway well before the _world _was at stake."

He threw a punch but Wesker caught it, twisting his arm down and under so Chris soon felt his own wrist between his shoulder blades. A sharp kick to one knee had him kneeling on the floor, the impact shooting painfully up his leg and making him grunt. There was a reason he wore those knee-pads, after all.

"Interesting, isn't it?"

"No," Chris snapped, practically before Wesker could finish. His wrist was given a sharp yank, making his shoulder creak in protest and causing him to lurch forward slightly to try to ease the pressure. It was difficult to say the tactic actually worked, but it felt better than just sitting there like a docile animal. His jaw clenched, eyes screwing shut briefly as Wesker's knee dug into his back, "You're a deranged egomaniac who's ruined countless lives for your own gain. I chased you because I _hate _you, the same way I hated Umbrella and every other fucking terrorist banking in bio-weapons and dead humans."

There was a moment of silence between them where the only sounds were Chris's heavy panting and the pulse in his ears. He couldn't even hear Wesker's breathing behind him, and the other had fallen entirely still. He didn't release him, but it was like someone had momentarily frozen time in that instance and Chris was left wondering what Wesker could have been thinking about. But it was short, Wesker's thought processes not only moving faster than his own but having a foothold to start on. Wesker knew what he was thinking about, knew what he had taken out of whatever it was Chris had said – but Chris had no clue. He only knew the instance had been short because when the other started laughing it didn't seem out of place. Wesker's amused chuckle broke through their stillness, functioning like a vacuum. But while it took the time with it, it didn't take Chris's confusion – like he had started to stumble across a thought but now couldn't remember what it was.

"Very good, Chris."

With a sharp jerk he was on his feet again, Wesker's free hand resting on his shoulder and steering him back towards the still open door. It had been the last, unlabeled room circled on the map and because of that, he hadn't been surprised to find Wesker waiting inside of it. He tried to fight being shoved, but it was a futile gesture because when he nearly lost his footing it was clear Wesker would have dragged him by a dislocated shoulder if he had to.

He snarled, trying to see over his shoulder just to find the endeavor as pointless as fighting being moved. "What the hell do you mean 'very good'?" He was getting sick of asking all these questions and not getting any legitimate answers.

Wesker's tone was nothing less than patronizing as he shoved Chris into the room where he stumbled and nearly hit the floor. He caught his balance just in time to turn and see the door sliding shut with an almost science fiction-esque 'woosh' sound.

"I believe you've had your first breakthrough."


	3. Pain So Familiar

**Title: **Conviction  
**Chapter Title: **Pain So Familiar  
**Series/Disclaimer: **I don't own Resident Evil. I just like to pretend I can write fanfiction about it.  
**Pairing(s): **Albert Wesker/Chris Redfield  
**Story Theme: **Without You - Breaking Benjamin  
**Beta: **My partner in crime, palinka_femme  
**Summary: **Hunting Albert Wesker was as natural as breathing for Chris - but maybe his reasons for such a relentless pursuit aren't as simple as he likes to think.**  
****Author's Notes: **Again, I'd like to thank everyone for their encouraging reviews and my beloved beta for all her help. This fanfiction really wouldn't have made it far without her to encourage and make angry faces at me. Not to mention listen to me rant and fangirl while simultaneously taking an interest in it!

Not much to say for this one. It's shorter and I think has a bit more going on in it in terms of where the plot is supposed to go, so hopefully you guys can start to see Wesker's intentions develop a little more here. Enjoy~!

- x - x - x -

The room was like an upgraded version of the one that he had woken up in a few days ago, though admittedly not by much. His bed was a little bit bigger and the mattress was more comfortable – it also came with blankets that looked like they were purchased from an actual store as opposed to some ancient prison movie. There was a dresser and he was as surprised to find clothes in the drawers. Then again, he'd been equally surprised to find clothes waiting for him when he checked out the bathroom circled on his map too. It was strange on multiple accounts because the clothes weren't just a general guess at his sweat-pant size but pants and shirts that were actually similar to what he had at home. While this mystery in particular wasn't one of the bigger ones, it still added another level to the creepy factor.

He tried the door after Wesker left just to discover that it was locked tight, increasing his blood pressure and making him want to put a hole through something. There was a keypad beside the door but when he entered the number he now had committed to memory, the word "DENIED" flashed silently across the screen along with a digital clock that seemed to be counting down from sixty. He frowned at the realization that Wesker had pretty much just put him in time out.

He slid a hand up through short, brunet strands before fisting it and slamming the door, "Dammit!"

When the door didn't give way out of pure awe at his frustration-enhanced strength, he opted to turn on the lamp on the bedside table and take a seat – it wasn't like he had anywhere else he could be. At least not for the next hour. Exhaling a long breath, his palms fell to his thighs, lightly at first before squeezing a bit as if that would help to ease some of the tension that kept his muscles tight. He'd never really bothered with deep breath exercises or finding a happy place. Truthfully, in his line of work, happy places were dangerous because they meant letting one's guard down, and it wasn't something a BSAA operative could afford to do. But for the next, he glanced at the pad, fifty-five minutes he didn't have anything better to do than try to relax.

He dug his elbows into his thighs, leaning forward to hang his head and stare at the floor for a few long seconds before his eyes just fell closed. His mental state was pulled into a million different directions, not all of which pertained to Wesker's still shady plans for him. The most noticeable was if Jill really thought he was dead and how she'd break it to Claire. Just thinking about his little sister's reaction his death made his chest tighten and he struggled to shake the thought from his head. She was as tough as she was a Redfield, she knew that his job meant risking more than his free time and should have been prepared for the idea of him never coming home. But being prepared for something then actually facing it were totally different. He'd been prepared for Jill to die too, but when she and Wesker disappeared out that window it was a whole new can of worms.

At this point he'd kill to just let them know that he was alive, not okay, but at least that he wasn't dead. Somehow, though, the idea of getting the chance to do that just made it even worse. They'd want to come after him, to save him, and he didn't even know where he was. Not only that, but there wasn't any guarantee he'd make it through this. It could have only been worse to let them know he didn't die in a volcano, just to discover he'd died in a way ten times worse at the hands of Wesker without interference. He wasn't resigning to his fate, but maybe for now it was better if they just thought he was dead. At least then, if he didn't come back, they wouldn't have been expecting him to in the first place and wouldn't have thrown themselves into danger trying to help.

The train of thought was like a track, leading him back to where he'd started with the biggest question hanging over his head – why was Wesker keeping him alive? Taking into account the brief conversation and upgraded room, he was betting it wasn't for experiments, or, at the very least, not of the B.O.W variety. After all, none of the bio-organic weapons he'd encountered so far seemed to care much about comfortable mattresses or clothes that fit. Whatever Wesker was planning was much bigger than turning him into the next generation of black market weapon, and Chris wasn't sure how to take the thought.

"Even when things are looking up they're still shit," he mumbled, rubbing his thumb and pointer finger as deep into the edges of his eyes as he could without hurting himself. Eventually he fell back onto the bed; stretching his arms out to either side of himself and feeling some muscles stretch in his back before tucking his hands under his head. The ceiling wasn't very interesting, but it seemed like as good a place as any to play back his conversation with Wesker.

It had been right after he said he hated Umbrella and bio-terrorism when they had that momentary lapse of silence. Thinking back on it made the moment even stranger than it had when it was happening, but at least now he had an explanation for it. Wesker had been considering something in what he'd said, but what that was hung just outside Chris's realm of ideas. By now Wesker would have already known he was on the forefront of the fight against bio-weapons, and hearing him verbally admit that he hated it shouldn't have been surprising either. It wasn't like it came up much, outright saying his position, but there was no way Wesker would have taken gratification in anything so vague.

He frowned and shut his eyes, trying to remember what _exactly _he had said. The insult about his egomania couldn't have been it; revelations for people like Wesker usually didn't come from insults. Besides, the inhuman didn't consider himself stuck in delusions of grandeur anyway so why would he have cared? It must have been something else, something after that, but the only thing left was the hatred. None of it should have been relevant. What the hell kind of 'breakthrough' could he have—

"…because I hate him?"

The ceiling was the same when he opened his eyes again, but his mind was an entirely different place. Between the insult and the remarks about bioterrorism, the only other thing he'd said was that he chased Wesker because he hated him. But that wasn't a breakthrough at all, it was common knowledge. Who wouldn't hate someone that was trying to destroy the planet and billions of lives in the process besides, maybe, someone just as crazy as Wesker himself? Anyone with any sanity or sense would have hated him, would have chased him and tried to stop him just as relentlessly as he had. Jill had been right alongside him throughout those years for the same reasons – to put an end to his insanity.

There was no way such an obvious thing could have been a breakthrough, not when it was out there in the open like that. It wasn't even like he'd stated it in a particularly vague way! He told him that he hated him the same way he hated everyone else that was out to kill people in such horrendous ways. Chris had seen the bad sides of biogenetic warfare, had seen people suffer and die just to come back as monsters or worse. Every time he doubted that he was on the right path he just remembered their faces, whether he wanted to or not, and the feeling of putting bullets in the heads of _things _that had been _people _once. Bio-terrorism, people like _Wesker, _did that – and he hated them with every breath for it.

But he wasn't the only one. There wasn't a special case to be made out of him for that. So, like a track, he was back where he started – with no real answers at all.

- x - x - x -

After the hour was up, the door opened without needing his key code, which would have been great except that it startled him out of a thought and he nearly fell off the bed. It seemed unlikely that it was rigged to crush him, so he trekked out into the hallway carefully, peering around the corner to make sure no B. were sneaking around. The corridors on the upper levels were a little nicer than the one he'd woken up in, if for no other reason than because they weren't lined with holding cells. There were a few doors visible down the hallway, before it made a sharp curve to the left and went who knew where. With the map in hand and no immediate danger in sight, Chris set out to try to get a better grip on where he was being kept.

He'd spent a good chunk of his life making his way through research facilities, which made him confident in the bet that this place was one. There wasn't much life to it, for starters, the walls were all gray and cold and the floors were concrete. After so many years he began to doubt that scientists noticed much outside of their work and gave up on the idea of finding anything otherwise interesting. Only five minutes of wandering his new living space and he was getting bored at the lack of personality, but he was used to necessity outweighing personal preference. The sort of annoying thing was that research facilities always seemed to have the layout of mazes, just like the ones cartoon scientists sent rats through to find cheese. Chris was starting to get that feeling all over again, especially because he had no satisfaction in knowing there was any "cheese" at the end.

Many of the doors didn't open for his code and that lead him to believe that Wesker's offered freedom was unsurprisingly limited. Every time one flashed the "DENIED" word at him he wondered if that was another way out that had been blocked off or if there was just something the tyrant didn't want him to see. The map he'd been given didn't seem to have any exits labeled or even visible, all the lines indicating solid wall after solid wall. Seeing as Umbrella favored underground workplaces, he was willing to bet that the only way out was the elevator. Chris was ready to give that a shot before he remembered that there was no button for any floor higher than his current one. There was, however, a key pad and a place for a card-key to be swiped. He gave himself three guesses as to who had the key and the first two didn't count.

At the very least, Wesker still kept his plans practically air-tight – looked like neither of them had changed that much. The thought, though depressing given his circumstances, was actually somewhat comforting when he recalled that he had a pretty good track record of messing up those plans. A slight, pleased smile quirked on his so far serious expression and he punched in his code to another door. When it actually opened, however, he was somewhat surprised and immediately dove to the side as an automatic reaction. Nothing was there, but he could still feel his heart practically hammering in his chest and it took a few seconds to get it under control. He pushed thoughts of how stupid it was to be startled by a door opening out of his mind and inched closer to peer inside.

It looked to be another lounge, though it was different from the one that the map had circled on it. The other one was mostly bare with a few couches and tables in it – though the carpet and color made Chris decide he'd spend time in it when he found it again. This one had couches and carpet as well, but the major difference was the large television on one of the walls. It was an older model and not a flat screen, which was more common in the "outside world" today, but looked intact. A quick scan around the room and his attention landed on a remote control lying on the table centered between a group three couches. For some reason he felt the faint tension of excitement in his limbs, though he couldn't place why considering that a television couldn't be used for communication and he rarely watched anything on his own anyway. Maybe it was just the prospect of confirming that the world hadn't secretly ended and Wesker just wasn't telling him. As he turned the television on, he acknowledged that he wasn't sure what he had been expecting to hear or see when he did it – but he did know he hadn't been expecting his name.

"…Redfield. Mr. Redfield is succeeded by his younger sister, Claire, an operative with the anti-bioterrorism group, Terrasave. In light of her brother's recent death in Africa, Claire has opted not to make a comment at this time while she meets with—"

He wasn't sure what startled him more; the T.V nearly exploding with sparks all of the sudden or the sound of a gunshot. Like much of his other programmed training, he hit his knees before he knew why he was doing it and reached for his sidearm before remembering he didn't have one. He lifted his head enough to catch the last dying sparks emitting from the cracked screen out of the corner of his eye before he turned. Confusion, not surprise, flooded his mind to see Wesker standing in the doorway holstering his gun. A flush of humiliation ran through him all of the sudden, even though the other didn't seem to be amused at all by his reaction. If anything he looked slightly annoyed, and Chris was ready to shout all kinds of questions at him but Wesker beat him to the punch.

"Must have forgotten one," he murmured, not quite moving into the room yet still having the air that he owned it. His arms crossed and his weight shifted to his hip, Chris hadn't even realized that Wesker wasn't looking at him until his head cocked slightly. "I am giving you my undivided attention, Chris, I expect no less than the same in return."

"One problem," Chris snarled as he pushed himself to his feet, "_You_ actually _want_ to give me your attention, for one obscure reason or another. I can't say I return the sentiment."

"Irrelevant."

It was frustrating how easily he could decide that and what made it ten times worse was that he was _right_. Whether or not Chris wanted to deal with Wesker, he didn't have much of a choice. Even staying in his room wasn't much of an option because he was fairly certain the tyrant had it bugged and watched him anyway. The only thing staying in his room meant was that it would be much easier to find him. Though, with that thought, he was suddenly curious as to how Wesker had gotten here so fast.

"Where did you _come _from? I was just in that hallway."

"You seem surprised."

"Is it _impossible _for you to just answer a goddamned question?"

Wesker's thin lips quirked slightly in amusement. "No."

Suddenly, Chris was inexplicably angry. He didn't know where it came from or why, though feeling or doing something without thought behind it was a rather common occurrence when he had to deal with Wesker. On some level, he supposed, it always had been. The other man had this irritating gift for getting under his skin and, it would seem, he did it without intention. It was as if his very existence was just there to be a bother. He could recall the same things happening as far back as their S.T.A.R.S days, where his former-captain would say or do something that just made every nerve in his body pay attention. Sometimes, when the frustration had faded away, he realized that it was less anger and more the type of anxiousness that came from not understanding things. He abhorred not being able to understand Albert Wesker.

But those days were passed and he didn't have to _understand _Wesker anymore, he just had to kill him.

"Why did you shoot the television, then?"

The motion of Wesker's head was almost like a flicker, glancing towards the television before becoming bored with it and looking down the hallway. "Because outside influence will be hindering."

"Hindering to what?"

"It doesn't matter how you phrase the question, I am not going to lay my plans bare for you. Or did you really expect me to fall for such a juvenile, verbal trick?"

Chris ground his teeth together because some part of him _had_ been hoping that Wesker would fall for it and now he just felt like a disappointed _idiot_.

The tyrant stepped aside when he started towards him, their otherwise hostile relationship covered by a very thin layer of docility from the former agent. Internally he'd succumbed to the fact he couldn't take Wesker when he was armed, much less hand to hand combat. His attentive blue gaze flicked towards the other's holster with brief consideration to try and snag one of the guns but it was quickly released. Wesker wasn't attacking him and it seemed like a more dangerous than usual idea to provoke him if he could just walk away from the entire situation right now. His job and determination took a certain level of blind bravery, but a good agent knew when to call it quits and, considering how long he'd survived, Chris considered himself pretty decent.

He was halfway to gone when he realized that footsteps were following him, and a glance over his shoulder confirmed that Wesker was headed in the same direction he was. He frowned slightly and paused, but Wesker continued right past him with no interest. Chris looked over his shoulder, considering going in the opposite way just to be difficult, but that would imply that Wesker cared at all where he was walking. Judging by the lack of even a glance in his direction, the brunet was fairly certain that their short exchange was more than enough for him. Like a child backed into a corner with the realization they couldn't get home without their parent, he shuffled after him. At the very least he could go back and forth between disinterest and glaring at the back of Wesker's head.

"Why aren't we at each other's throat right now?" He finally asked, deciding that anything was better than the silence that was growing between them. It was similar to making conversation when one realized they were going to be in an elevator with someone for a while – except that he was less interested in making idle chatter and more determined to find a question that Wesker would actually answer.

"We fight when you interrupt my plans and insist on being in my way, typically due to your infatuation with shooting at me." Wesker explained, his tone unusually flat compared to their more recent conversations that usually involved a lot of passionate banter. It was strange in its vague familiarity – it'd been nearly eleven years now since Wesker just _explained _something to him so simply. He wasn't sure he liked it. "And now, you don't have the option of being such an inconvenience."

"It's natural to shoot at something that's trying to _kill me_. Most people call it '_survival instinct_.'"

He chuckled. "You have the tendency to shoot well before I'm attempting to do you any harm."

Chris's hands tightened at his sides, finding a vague comfort in the formation of his fists and his fingers digging into his palm. "Our history doesn't _exactly_ lead me to believe you want a fucking _conversation_, Wesker. But if you do, you can start by telling me what the hell the point in all of this is and why you went through all the trouble of faking my death."

"In due time, Christopher."

Wesker turned into an open doorway but Chris came to a jarring halt at the sound of his full name spoken in such a memorable tone. His eyes didn't widen and he didn't feel short of breath, but it a brilliant sort of ache spread across his chest from an undetermined focal point. It was misplaced and unexpected, the type of thought or feeling that made one stare off into nowhere without knowing why they were doing it. Within seconds he had it under control, shoving it off to the side to bury it under the nearest rock of resolve, and was walking again. But it was very similar to seeing something – even though he pushed it aside and ignored it, he could never _un -_feel it.

He frowned a little bit, digging two of his fingers into the space between his pectorals as he headed down the hallway, making a half-assed observation that the room Wesker had walked into was the kitchen. Though the beginnings of hunger had begun tugging at his insides, the idea of eating had evaporated in the wake of whatever it was that had occurred when Wesker said his name. His fingertips' pressure quickly ran into the solid wall of his sternum and he felt a light twinge of pain before he dropped his hand back to his side. There wasn't some organ or muscle in him that he could pluck out and examine to make sense of it. While the idea of not being able to forget it wasn't so bad, it might have been easier to deal with if he at least knew where it had come from in the first place.

- x - x - x -

The situation didn't improve much from there, despite the fact that he hadn't seen much of Wesker afterwards. It seemed to be a pattern, that they would have confrontations then just stay apart for a few days afterwards. Normally, that wouldn't have bothered Chris much at all because the less Wesker in his life, inevitably the better his life was. However, the echoing, dead hallways of the facility left a certain desire for company – even if it was that of the insane tyrant. This didn't lead to actively seeking him out, of course, but he did wander out of his room even after establishing a mental map of the place. Considering that he couldn't go through many of the doors, it wasn't exactly difficult.

Most of his time was spent in the lounge that had been circled on his map – particularly after discovering that the one with the now broken television in it had been blocked off. There wasn't a lot to do, but it did have a few magazines spread across the table that he'd flip through. The articles weren't interesting and didn't hold his attention for long, but he gave himself credit for the effort. More than anything he had spent the past several days – he estimated about four – trying to get the strange feeling from their last encounter out of his mind. Though it had certainly left his body, he felt as close to normal as before, there was an irritating nagging at the back of his mind for the sheer fact that he couldn't label what it had been.

As he tossed another magazine back onto the table he ground his teeth together in irritation. Wesker had probably planned for that awkward almost nostalgic feeling to happen just so Chris could sit there and drive himself crazy over it until eventually he snapped and demanded an answer. Even then, it wouldn't have made much of a difference because even if he could find the tyrant, there was no way he was going to give up the reason. Not when it had to be so much fun watching him fidget and lose sleep over it from the shadows. But even then it didn't seem like Wesker's style, even if he had been expecting that reaction then there had to have been a _reason _for it. Even when he was indulging in his favorite hobby of spiting Chris, there was usually a purpose behind it.

Realizing that he was back where he started, not knowing what the hell was going on, he exhaled his frustration in a long sigh and stood up. The entire situation was beginning to make him restless, and not just because he was confined to a facility that was almost entirely off-limits. He was beginning to feel too domestic here and, as stupid as it sounded even in his own mind, too _safe_. While he did have an apartment and required time off, he had become so used to rushing off to missions or doing something besides just waking up and having the day to do nothing but relax. Looking back on it, much of his life had functioned the same way and now he just didn't know what to _do _with himself. Truthfully, it left him with far too much time to just _think_.

The hallway was quiet as he headed back towards his room, enabling him to hear the material of his outfit rustling and shifting as he moved. If he were a less controlled person he probably would have screamed just to hear it echo back to him, anything to fill the total silence and lifelessness of the facility. Had he been on a mission, the silence would have been ideal for hearing any threats sneaking up on him, but from what he could tell there either weren't any B. here or Wesker had them locked up tight. His thoughts trailed back to the one that he had seen in his room during his first night after waking up here, frowning slightly. No B.O.W that he'd encountered had just been able to vanish like that, but the stubborn majority of his brain refused to believe he'd been hallucinating it. He didn't _have _a mental problem, despite the way everyone else seemed to believe he should have functioned based on his history.

As if to spite him, an instantly recognizable and unwelcome sensation hit the back of his neck as though someone had pressed an ice pack to it. The feeling was similar to the one that he'd gotten in his room, except for the fact that he couldn't hear anything and it trumped his desire to look over his shoulder. It shot down his legs and every instinct told him to run – which is precisely what he did. Without bothering to glance back he tore down the hallway. As he turned a corner, he was fairly certain that he caught sight of the familiar, brown-gray mass of a Guardian of Insanity from the edge of his gaze. The sudden realization made his heart rate increase as only one word came to mind:

_Shit! _


	4. Close to the Heart

**Title: **Conviction**  
Chapter Title: **Close to the Heart**  
Series/Disclaimer: **I don't own Resident Evil. I just like to pretend I can write fanfiction about it.**  
Pairing(s): **Albert Wesker/Chris Redfield**  
Story Theme: **Without You - Breaking Benjamin**  
Beta: **palinka_femme at LJ**  
Summary: **Hunting Albert Wesker was as natural as breathing for Chris - but maybe his reasons for such a relentless pursuit aren't as simple as he likes to think.**  
Author's Notes: **Writing author's notes is hard when you've actually finished the chapter several weeks prior to posting it. But considering that seems to be the only sacrifice I need to make to keep this thing on track, I'm sure you all don't mind dealing with it. Aha.

Thanks for the reviews, everyone. They're my favorite thing to see in my e-mail when I log on in the mornings and let me know that you like what I'm doing with the story. Thanks in particular to lemon-sprinkles and ShivaTheDestroyer here on FF, your consistent reviewing is awesome and let's me know that I'm not losing all my readers. Aha. Please keep checking back and leaving those comments, I can't put into words how much they mean to me and how much I appreciate them!

You get a little bit more insight into Chris in this chapter, which I can only hope comes off as believable and logical. Considering that I already have this story planned out, I'm worried that not all of the events I have in mind are lining up in a way that works outside of my head. It should be clear by this point that he's making "progress" in his relationship with Wesker. Though to what ends? Well, I'll leave that up to you to debate on~

- x - x - x -

Admittedly, this one was his fault.

As pain seared across his backside from its recent meeting with a less than forgiving wall, he was willing to concede that its presence was his own doing. He grunted and crumpled to the floor, taking a short-lived satisfaction in the fact he hadn't hit his knees when one buckled underneath him. At the very least he hadn't hit them both, but his body still rocked forward and his hands came in contact with the smooth ground. Fingers curled into soft fists as his ears throbbed, listening for the sound of footsteps or a rush of air and coming up with nothing. Whatever he had sprinted away from wasn't chasing him – though he wondered now if it had been real to begin with. Unfortunately, even if it had been imaginary, he was currently forced to deal with a very real threat.

He didn't need to look up to know that he'd run into Wesker, that much was evident by the very faint scent of his cologne before he went flying. BOWs didn't wear cologne, after all. The other wasn't moving, but his automatic reaction to being slammed into had been to backhand the ex-agent across the hallway. When Chris lifted his head he wasn't sure if he was looking at an angry or just on-alert version of the tyrant – but he did know that Wesker at least wasn't coming after him. He was standing still, almost docile, but his fingers were curled at his sides. He was temporarily caught up recalling the sight of those claws as they became visible with a flash of lightning back in Spencer's mansion. He wondered now if Wesker really would have killed him then, considering how reluctant he seemed to do it now.

"Christopher—"

"Don't _call _me that!"

The accumulation of four days of thought was behind that one sentence, though it wasn't particularly insightful and he hadn't even meant to say it. He blamed the rush of adrenaline brought on by running away from some monster that was apparently only in his mind. Only a small part of him was glad to have it out in the open, the rest of him was pissed that he gave himself up so easily.

Since the first time he'd heard the other use that name it had been rolling around in his head, in his nightmares and dreams. The scariest things were the dreams. It wasn't as though he didn't remember his S.T.A.R.S days, he did, but they hadn't surfaced in his unconscious state in years. The mansion did, of course, and the countless monsters hunting him through the endless hallways of his mind. What happened over a decade ago was more than willing to contribute its fair share to his nightmares – but the only times he thought of his S.T.A.R.S days were when he was controlling it. He was careful with the things he thought about and though it was impossible to avoid Wesker – the man had been their captain, after all – it was easier when he was able to decide.

In his dreams, he couldn't decide. More and more memories had been surfacing, that damned_ tone_ in every one. The blond calling him into his office for punishment concerning his latest antics or making sure he finished his paper work. Hell, just asking how he was doing or anything _civil_ – all of it came back to his full first name said in that tone. A stoic, smooth tenor that didn't incline that Wesker was feeling one way or another about anything but still held the slightest edges of emotion sometimes if one knew what they were listening for. Even now, in response to the fact Chris had slammed into him at a dead sprint, there was that barest hint that he was displeased. He hated that he knew it so well, though he didn't know if he hated himself or Wesker for it.

Getting back to his feet was easy despite the fact he was dazed but he planted a hand on the wall to keep his balance anyway. His adrenaline was going but it wasn't as high as it usually would have been in a fight with Wesker. This was probably because it wasn't technically a fight, not yet, though it was officially the Wesker's turn to make his move. Maybe he realized that Chris hadn't meant to run into him, he'd just turned the corner a little fast without consideration to anyone else being in the hallway. After all, they were the only two here and it just seemed unlikely that he'd run into anyone.

He heard the quirk of a brow in the other's voice more than he saw it, lifting his head slightly to Wesker who seemed to have relaxed for the moment. Chris officially decided to hate himself now, for knowing the other's reactions too well.

"Such an adverse reaction, I assume you have a reason for it," Wesker stated, no question in his voice. The usual sense that Wesker was just toying with him was now more than willing to turn into tension and Chris could sense the other's readiness to beat a response out of him if he had to.

But he didn't.

"You don't have the right—"

Wesker chuckled. "The _right _to use your name? Do you have a nickname you'd prefer—"

"_Shut up_!"

He started towards the other, rage gripping and twisting deeply into every nerve ending and muscle it could find. It was the chuckle that had done it, that was the little tick that had pushed him from trying to make this a civil shouting match into something more physical. Chris could feel the tension in his arms and legs, it spread along his shoulders and practically hurt, but he didn't much care. Every last inch of his body was flooded with a level of revulsion that he hadn't acknowledge in some time, much less acted upon. When he fought Wesker it was because he had to, because the world or his sister or _someone_ needed to be saved and he was the only one who could do it. But over the past couple of days, seeing him function something so close to human had become more than he could bear.

The first inclination that something was off was that Wesker actually did shut up after Chris's demands, and he didn't even look sour over it. He was humoring him, at best, but Chris only let it add more coal to the fire. The next inclination was when Wesker actually _let _him touch him, staying still as Chris came at him and fisted his hands in the black dress shirt he was wearing. Though the tyrant easily could have blocked him or done something even more violent, he didn't. Normally Chris would have realized how bad a sign that was but between the fact he wasn't really being chased as his mind had lead him to believe and the fact the other _continued _to use his name in that tone, he just ignored it. Or didn't care to begin with.

"Don't you _fucking _use my name like the past eleven years haven't happened - like you're still the person that you were!"

Again and again he was caught up in speaking, moving, and behaving before he thought through what he was doing. For so many years he had been so careful, calculating almost, of the way that he behaved and the things that he thought about to avoid scenarios just like this. He despised Albert Wesker, hated him down to the last virally infected strain of his DNA, because of everything that he had done and planned to do. His job, fighting as often and as hard as he did, didn't leave room for things to get personal. He didn't do it just for himself, he did it for Rebecca and Barry, for Joseph and Enrico – he fought for all of them. The ones that couldn't fight anymore because of his sick plot that killed them or robbed them of what fight they might have had. It wasn't personal because he was Chris Redfield; it was personal because Wesker had ruined so many lives.

"You destroyed thirteen people in a single night, all for your own bullshit reasons. You don't have the right to talk to me like you're still my superior officer and I should respect or trust you."

He wanted to hit Wesker, who was observing him rather carefully through the tinted lenses of his sunglasses. His face was calm and unresponsive, though Chris could feel the tension in Wesker's shoulders against where his knuckles bunched in dark fabric. The ex-agent's heartbeat was already racing, increasing from what had been left over when he thought he was being chased. Now it was something more though, something that had him breathing slightly heavier even though all he'd done was slam Wesker into a wall. He clenched his jaw and pulled the tyrant forward just to do it again, the force of it moving solidly through his arms. "Not after everything you've done."

A silence lingered between them where Chris refused to relinquish his hold and Wesker let him keep it, for some indiscernible motive that he didn't care about. The ex-operative tensed when Wesker's hand moved up slightly and slammed him back into the wall to make him stop. That made Wesker frown.

"I—"

"I don't care."

Wesker sighed, exhaling some of his calm and letting his hand fall back down again. "Tell me, Chris, do you expect me to believe that your disdain comes from my unfaithful actions towards S.T.A.R.S alone?"

"Don't turn this into something personal, Wesker, it isn't." He ground out, both unwilling and unable to relieve the tension in his jaw. "I was _friends _with those people. With Richard and Forest, _all of them_, and you lead them into that hellhole knowing the whole time what would happen! _Planning _for it!"

"Them?"

"Us, whatever. Same difference."

That, for whatever reason, was when Wesker decided to move. It wasn't that Chris didn't know he was playing nice; it was just that he hadn't bothered trying to anticipate what to do when the tyrant stopped. Wesker's arms came up between his own, shoving outwards in a fluid, strong motion that wrenched the his fingers free of the material and made him stumble slightly. Within seconds an open palm was colliding with his chest and he was slamming into the wall for a second time that day. Except this time he didn't have the opportunity to hit the floor because Wesker was on him, fingers wrapped around his shoulder and his thumb pressing tight into the junction of his collarbone, shoulder, and neck. It wasn't life threatening, but the pressure point itself hurt and sent his muscles into a frenzy of throbbing pain. He made a strangled sort of sound in reply, his hand immediately going to the area though all it could do was grip weakly at Wesker's wrist.

"But it isn't the same at all, is it?" Wesker said in his imperceptible tone. He wasn't angry but he wasn't amused, yet it didn't lay quite flat either. "You were quite different than them."

"No, I wasn't," Chris half-gasped, tightening his grip as much as he could. It only caused Wesker to roll his thumb over the area, intensifying the stabbing and causing the younger male to drop his hand again. His head lolled forward slightly, squeezing his eyes shut before forcing them open again. The last thing he needed right now was Wesker to be out of his sight.

"You're alive, aren't you?"

Chris couldn't come up with an argument, leaving an opening for Wesker to go on.

"You're so willing to push everything aside for the sake of others, _Christopher_, but you can't escape the truth of the matter. Do you still talk to Rebecca? Barry? Would you still talk to Jill had she not stuck so close to you throughout the years?"

He couldn't answer for Rebecca and Barry, knowing all too well that he'd lost contact with both of them throughout their time apart. The last he'd heard of Barry had been when he turned down an invite to one of his children's birthday parties in favor of a mission. In the usual way, he'd tried to tell Chris not to push himself too hard, which Chris in return had brushed off with a promise he would tell Jill that he'd called. Within those aspects he was uncomfortable with how close Wesker was to the truth and even more disturbed with the fact he doubted the other had been keeping tabs on him throughout the past few years. That only meant that Wesker had inferred based on his own knowledge of him, assumptions after a decade of knowing him, seeing him work and function. The idea of his former captain knowing him so well was not a pleasant one.

But God, Jill. His mind went reeling for reasons as to why they were still in contact, why they had come to function so cleanly as a unit together – he'd never even considered it. In the S.T.A.R.S days, Wesker was the one that usually had his back; the man had been there since the beginning and Jill only came on later. He remembered an instant attraction to Jill, she was so easy for him to get along with, which was a sharp contrast to the now tyrant. But Wesker was the one he'd trusted to watch his back if only because he was the only one willing to go after Chris when he was hurling himself into trouble. Wesker was the one that he'd spent much of his time around, either at the shooting range or around the office. Wesker was the one he'd encountered in the mansion and listened to under the belief that they were still on the same team. Over time he'd learned to trust Jill as well, but he couldn't remember actively keeping in touch with her. She'd always just been there, at his side, going into the same battles he went into with the same vendetta he carried. Had that all been her own doing? He didn't want to think he'd contributed nothing to keeping in touch with her, but his mind was pulling up blank slide after blank slide of actively keeping their partnership intact after the deterioration of S.T.A.R.S. After a while he'd come to rely her, Jill's presence so natural and necessary…but before then, what?

"It doesn't matter!" he snarled finally but once again Wesker ground his thumb into that pressure point and Chris was left choking on his pain.

"I do wish you would stop putting up this futile charade," Wesker sighed; his voice now returned to that stoic tone that Chris could so easily place throughout his memories. "Simply saying that things don't matter does not mean that you are able to change their true importance. Come now, and stop blaming your hatred on everyone else."

Chris's insides knotted unpleasantly and it pulled his entire body into yet another jarring standstill. There was a certain, bittersweet reality in Wesker's statement. Never had he considered himself _blaming _his persistent hunt of Wesker on anyone else – but there was a truth to it. He used them as excuses without even realizing it and, in that, wasn't much better than the very man he hunted. He could practically hear them calling him reckless and telling him to be careful; Barry asking how Claire was and prodding at him when he didn't have an immediate answer and Joseph telling him he should try dating every once in a while. They wouldn't have wanted him throwing his life on the line every chance he got, not like this. But he'd thought the only thing he could do for them was kill Wesker…

He squeezed his eyes shut and jerked his head away from the tyrant standing over him, _No. I knew better._

Wesker wasn't expecting him to lash out the arm nearest to his grip, but that's what Chris did and the tyrant was forced to buckle to one knee. His grip hardly had time to loosen before a fist was colliding with his jaw – Chris had swung before he knew for sure his first attack would work. The genetically enhanced male could think far faster than he ever could, so the only option left was to strike at him before Chris even made up his own mind. Thankfully, his rage enabled him to do that quite easily.

He didn't get up and lunge after the other so much as half-crawl after him, launching himself onto the dark-clad super-villain with his fist already pulled back. By this point, however, Wesker's responses had caught up and he caught both of the other's wrists to immobilize him. Now having no way to lash out cleanly, Chris turned to the only remaining outlet he could think of while seeing so much red.

"Two years working together, you son of a bitch, and you just dropped us into the middle of that goddamned mansion! All for the sake of your _fucking data!_" He was screaming and thrashing. Already his throat was sore, not used to the action after the past four days in his personal confinement just thinking. "You made me _respect _you, admire you!"

Rage and yet so much more churned his insides. It felt like a step beyond hatred and lingered too close to being genuinely hurt. Eleven years of it, burying it under reason after reason to hide the real damage that night had done.

Chris snarled, "You were _never _a man, were you?"

A man wouldn't have thrown his team off a cliff for the sake of his own benefit, wouldn't have lead them head first into that kind of danger. Chris had been in the military and on the police force, he had seen devious people throughout his life time – but at least they were straightforward brutal. It might have been different if Wesker had just pointed a gun at him and threatened to take his life, but he _hadn't _done that, so Chris wouldn't know. All he knew what that he'd respected Wesker, he'd believed in his judgment and him as a leader, and it had all been thrown out the window. After so much fighting, so many clashes with superior officers, he'd finally thought he'd found someone worth relying on.

Being wrong had never done as much damage as it had when Wesker turned on them.

When Wesker flipped their positions, it didn't do much to help Chris's blind fury; all it did was further keep him from lashing out. The tyrant pinned his wrist firmly to the ground on either side of his head, leaning forward so the other couldn't kick him in anywhere of relevance. Chris was fully prepared to go until one of them was dead and with that option ripped away he only got angrier. He spit, only vaguely aware that it caught the other somewhere in the face, mostly by the fact Wesker had let out a low, displeased growl.

"Don't use me as another route for your denial," he sneered, swiping his jaw against his shoulder, leading Chris to believe that was where his projectile saliva had landed. He was less than willing to hear him, thrashing underneath the other as if he could really make any progress with movements born of frustration rather than thought. His back arched as his eyes screwed shut, straining his legs and shoulders as much as he could to try to unseat the other – it seemed stupid and unfair that it did so little.

"Fuck you, I'm not denying anything!"

"Then you admit to admiring a monster? Chris, that seems so unlike you."

"Get off of me!"

Some part of him acknowledged that his chest was hurting again, the same layer of pain that he'd felt when Wesker first used his full name. Except Wesker wasn't letting him walk away this time and just being within proximity made it that much more intense. His lungs felt like they were too small and his heart was not only going incredibly fast but felt like it was trapped in a vice grip. Again and again Wesker was pointing out things he didn't want to hear, shit he didn't want to acknowledge, and the most agonizing part was the fact he was so _right_. He must have been human at some point because Chris _had_ looked up to him, he'd even confessed as much. Once again he was left hating himself for giving Wesker that inch. Hell, that _mile_.

Gloved fingers tightened just that little bit more to reassure Chris of his grip, but it was his voice that cut through everything. So familiar and firm, like he'd pulled it right out of a memory…as though if Chris opened his eyes he'd see the same Captain he remembered from eleven years ago.

"Not until you _settle_, Christopher."

His eyes stayed closed, clenched so tightly that they were the envy of his tense jaw. His entire face was wracked with a sort of pain that couldn't be administered by a fist. His brain flipped a switch that was covered in cobwebs, knowing that the threat was more like a promise than anything. Wesker wouldn't let him up until he stopped thrashing and despite the ache in his chest and his searing hatred, anything was better than having to lie there and listen to him talk for the rest of his life. Especially in that tone, that goddamned commanding tone that every nerve in his brain told him to just listen to. He was suffocating on it, choking on the fight between new instincts and old ones – how many times had that tone promised him safety and guidance? How many times had it kept him alive?

"Stop talking and I'll—"

"_Settle_."

He grunted and arched, pressing his head to the side and not caring if Wesker decided to take advantage of the available expanse of throat that would have been so easy for him to strangle. In fact, at this point he'd almost welcome it. It meant that that this bullshit could stop, that he could just be dead instead of having to choose which part of his brain to listen to: Wesker wouldn't let him up if he didn't calm down – but he didn't _have_ to, he could do this if he could just focus – but all he told him to do was settle, it wasn't so hard – fuck what he told him to do, it was _Wesker_! – but it was an order, wasn't it? – No, Wesker wasn't his superior anymore – but why fight when it was so easy to just listen?

Chris let out a strangled scream, more from his internal fight than struggling against Wesker. The barrage of mental attacks made his external effort weak and Wesker had little to no trouble keeping him pinned. As the sound faded, his feet planted themselves against the smooth floor, hesitated, then slid out. His body fell into a straight and mostly harmless line, though it was far from still and Wesker's lack of movement signaled that he'd noticed it. Everything that made up his torso was still burning in a dark sort of distress. He was heaving hard enough that he could have easily convinced someone that he'd just done a thirty mile run, but part of him resigned that wasn't the reason he stopped. Though he knew he was suddenly tired it wasn't from trying to get the tyrant off of him, it wasn't even from yelling…something had cracked inside and he had to _stop _before it broke completely.

He tilted his face up again, focusing as intently as his blurred vision would allow at the other's sunglasses. It was nearly impossible to see anything other than himself in them, their damned plastic reflecting everything. More than anything he didn't want to see himself right now, but squinted until he caught sight of the reptilian eyes underneath.

"I _hate_ you."

Wesker smirked.


	5. Say Something New

**Title: **Conviction  
**Chapter Title: **Say Something New  
**Series/Disclaimer: **I don't own Resident Evil. I just like to pretend I can write fanfiction about it.  
**Pairing(s): **Albert Wesker/Chris Redfield  
**Story Theme: **Without You - Breaking Benjamin  
**Beta: **My dear palinka_femme  
**Summary: **Hunting Albert Wesker was as natural as breathing for Chris - but maybe his reasons for such a relentless pursuit aren't as simple as he likes to think.**  
****Author's Notes: **Uwah. Chapter 4~

It seems like I get more reviews/watches/favorites with every chapter, which is very encouraging! Thank you again, everyone. I know it sounds really generic and I do it at the beginning of every chapter, but please know that I mean it and I really appreciate you all reading this story and taking the time to review it. Your effort is much appreciated and makes me smile every time I see this story getting something new in the way of fans!

This chapter was both fun and difficult to write. Originally it was really short, but a little while after I sent it to my beta I ended up adding so much to it and moving things around to make it fit in with the plotline in a way that I hope is better. You all seem to have ideas for this fanfiction, aha, it's great hearing them and I hope you can understand why I don't reply to all of you. Particularly if you're bringing up theories! You'll just have to see how things unfold.

I do need to say that this will be the last update for a while. Don't worry, I haven't lost my drive for the fanfiction, but June is looking to be a very busy month for me so I'm taking a temporary hiatus. My next update probably won't be until the first Monday in July, since I'll be out of town this next week (visiting palinka!) and the weekend after. I need time to build up the next chapter.

But at least this one doesn't leave off at a cliffhanger and hopefully the calm interactions will keep you smiling until I can get to my next update.

- x - x - x -

He'd been escorted back to his room for another time-out after Wesker pulled him to his feet again. Not only did he have no choice in the matter but he didn't care to put up more of a fight. However, when the door closed behind him and the timer pulled up, he didn't think he wanted to be alone. If he had any other option for company besides Wesker he would have taken it, but as he didn't, he half-considered trying to talk his way out of the situation. After everything that had happened, he felt like he was walking on eggshells in his own mind and being forced to sit in his room with nothing but his thoughts for company wasn't the most pleasant thought. That last conversation had gotten far too close to something that he had gone years pretending didn't exist.

As his adrenaline faded, the bruises on his backside and near his neck where Wesker had made an imprint of his thumb started to ache. With no mirror in the room for him to check any of the damage out in, he was forced to just deal with it as he migrated over to ease himself onto the bed. He didn't even bother to flick the lamp on as he stretched out on his mostly undamaged side and stared at the wall through the darkness. Despite his best attempts, his mind could only play over their conversation and everything that he had let loose between them.

The worst part of it was that he couldn't deny it – everything he'd said had been true and, on some level, Wesker had known. Chris putting it out in the open just confirmed it, like knowing when a child had broken something and just wanting them to confess it. He tried to convince himself that it was okay, that it wasn't a big deal that he'd given that information up, but the relief wouldn't come. In the end, he had owned up to it, and he could only imagine the satisfaction Wesker got from finally hearing what he'd probably known all along. Ages ago he had accepted that S.T.A.R.S was just a part of his life, on his own terms he had acknowledge that he couldn't _change _that, but this was a whole new monster. He had never accepted how he felt about his old captain or what that could mean for him later on – it was easier just to ignore it.

Ever since his parents had died, he'd had an issue with authority – mostly because it seemed like everyone that was ever in charge of him enjoyed making bad calls. If he thought he could do something better, then he would do it his way and they could thank him later. Unfortunately, in the military, that didn't really _work _because there was this whole hierarchy of superiors that he was supposed to listen to over his own judgment. For a good few years he was able to convince them that what he had done was better, but after a while the direct conflicts convinced too many people that he was more trouble than he was worth. Even if he didn't _like _a lot of the guys he worked for, it still stung to be discharged.

More than that, he remembered feeling like he was suspended in a state of uselessness. He didn't have anything to _do _after he'd left the military. The random odds and ends jobs were enough to keep his apartment, sure, but there was no other point in them except a paycheck and he decided really soon that wasn't nearly enough. It had been a heaven-sent when Barry contacted him about S.T.A.R.S – and not just because it gave his life purpose again.

Chris squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the very thing he had just admitted to his former captain. The blow wasn't even softened when he tried to remember that S.T.A.R.S was a different time for both of them. Wesker had been human then and Chris was more impressionable, he could look back on himself now and admit that he might have taken everything to heart too easily. But nothing changed the fact that S.T.A.R.S was only heaven-sent because Wesker had _made _it one. He gave orders that aligned with calls Chris would have made, he would consider other opinions though his judgment rarely required them. For the first time since his parents had died, Chris had someone telling him what to do that wasn't pissing off him with bullshit orders at every turn.

And then the Mansion Incident happened. Because of Wesker he was shooting animated corpses of his friends and comrades, fending for his life against monsters that wanted nothing more than to eat his insides. There was something traumatizing about fighting BOWs; something had been completely destroyed in him that night. He knew that the world wasn't all sunshine and rainbows; he learned that the day he got the call telling him his parents were dead, but _monsters _in the literal sense shouldn't have been real. Bad people were very different from the things he'd seen in that mansion, thing he made himself see every day on his fight against bio-terrorism, and sometimes he found himself wishing he could just go back to before everything went to hell.

He was probably supposed to feel better having gotten all of that off his chest, having finally confronted Wesker about screwing him over back then, but he didn't. More than anything he felt vulnerable, and he absolutely _hated _that feeling – it wasn't a help that it was Albert Wesker's fault. A part of him had been ripped open by their conversation, like he'd been forced to pick off a scab, and he didn't like it. It was very similar to how he felt directly after the mansion, the same reaction that caused him to haul off and punch a guy for just spilling _coffee. _He was on edge and unguarded, fighting with himself about his motives for the past eleven years. It had been simple to say he was doing it for the world. It was easy and impersonal – anyone with a conscience would have been motivated to the same ends.

But he _wasn't _anyone. As much as he liked to pretend he was, it wasn't true, and Wesker had succeeded in making him realize that. It was an annoying, inescapable fact: He was Chris Redfield, a former member of S.T.A.R.S. and a former subordinate of Albert Wesker. That would _always_ be the reality and so, on some level, it would _always _be personal. Fighting it any more was stupid, particularly after he'd now admitted it – he couldn't take it back. Done deal. But that didn't mean that Wesker had won by having that information. Just like everything else, it was logical that Chris would despise him for leading not only him but his friends into that kind of danger. Not another great step and, really, was just as obvious as hating him for any other reason.

He shifted carefully to alleviate some of the stiffness that was settling on his muscles, gently pushing himself onto his back and closing his eyes again. The pain didn't seem like it would be quick to dissipate which fended off any sense of tired that might have come from the ordeal. He was just getting close to relaxing when the door slid open and startled him into an upright position with a short, pained sound. Glaring fiercely at it, he debated going over to close it again before deciding that he could probably do with a shower and food before he settled in for another few days of avoiding Wesker as much as he possibly could. With a slight grunt he stood up, gently pressing his fingers into his lower back as if that would help to assuage any of the pain, and headed for the door.

Chris was little over halfway to the kitchen when he started noticing the faint scent of something being cooked. Considering his diet since day one had consisted of quick, easily prepared things, he hadn't smelled anything close to an actual meal recently. His stomach started flipping in eager circles before the thought caught up with him that Wesker was the one behind it. He paused outside the kitchen doorway, running over the idea of just going to take a shower and returning. With the pleasant smell assaulting his senses, however, he could feel his hunger arguing against that idea and he frowned. Trying to breathe strictly through his mouth, he headed inside to find something he could grab and leave with.

Just the sight of Wesker cooking was enough to give pause, though the tyrant's back was to him and his frame obscured much of whatever it was he was making. He had changed his shirt since their scuffle, though it was still a nicer dress shirt and almost indistinguishable from the one he'd been wearing before. Chris headed towards the fridge slowly, like he was sneaking around a Licker and trying not to set it off, though his eyes never left the other male's little area. He scanned over the surrounding surface, noticing a mostly clean cutting board with a knife on top of it on the counter beside the stove. Beside that were the familiar, rectangle frames of Wesker's sunglasses, neatly folded and away from whatever potential mess could have been made. That little detail alone made it easier to avoid looking for the other's face – the sight of those reptilian eyes always making his stomach toss in distaste no matter how passive he was feeling before seeing them.

Their argument from earlier was still fresh in his mind, so the idea of avoiding Wesker was amongst his favorite right now considering that killing him was out of the question. He tried to keep from staring, knowing that even in humans it was easy to tell when someone was fixated on you. The fact that Wesker was probably already well aware of his presence despite his best attempts to get in and out was not exactly comforting. There really was no way to just act _natural _when one was slinking around a kitchen and though he tried, his movements felt stiff and unnatural. He wasn't even concerned that Wesker was going to attack him, just that he would _see _him and feel the need to say something. Even sighing at his own inability to act normal was held off, in case the tyrant would have something to say about his breathing habits or whatever else.

Finally he made it to his destination, eyes flicking again to the other in an attempt to tell if he'd noticed him or not. He didn't doubt that he had, but Wesker was being silent about it and Chris was thankful. In his bout of relief at reaching the fridge, the cool handle reassuring against his palm, he took a deep breath through his nose and the wave of hunger hit him all over again. While it wasn't a crippling feeling, it was more than enough to make his stomach churn in the most audible way that it could. If there was any way to remove an organ for betrayal without killing himself, he would have considered it at that moment. He froze briefly, attention moving to Wesker out of the corner of his eye and waiting for some kind of reaction. When he didn't seem to notice, he pulled the fridge open and relaxed as the cold air hit his face.

"You're welcome to join me, Christopher."

The tension that spread across his backside irritated his bruise, which did nothing to help the sudden aggravation overcoming him.

"No, thanks." He snapped back as sardonically as he could, standing up straight enough that he could glare at the other from behind the open door. "I'm surprised you eat, I don't even want to think about what it is."

Wesker didn't look at him or incline that he cared at all that the other had said anything, but Chris hesitated a few seconds before turning his attention back to the fridge again.

"Filet mignon," he offered, still clearly smug, "With seasoned cauliflower."

Chris ground his teeth together.

"Shut _up_, Wesker."

There was plenty available, including fresh fruit, vegetables, and packaged meats – though many of them needed to be cooked and he wasn't going to stand near Wesker to do it – to choose from. Wanting nothing more than to get in and out, he picked up an orange and quickly shut the fridge door. It wasn't nearly enough to handle his hunger, but at the very least it could push it off until later when he could make something without the other present. He headed back towards the hallway again, already working on ripping the orange peel away and gathering its fragments into his hand. Waiting Wesker out in the lounge was probably the most logical approach, because then he'd be able to see when he left, so he reasoned to head there and try flipping through the magazines again.

"You don't have to eat with me, you realize, and I imagine your physique isn't sustained by a regular diet of fruit and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches."

He felt the sticky drip of juice slide down his thumb as he squeezed a peeled back section of the fruit a bit too hard. The remark didn't pull him to an immediate stop, though it did slow until he came to a halt near enough to the door that he reached out and rested an arm against it. He tried to relax his jaw but it failed, so the words still came out through locked teeth.

"I can take care of myself."

"On some levels, perhaps, though cooking wouldn't seem to be one of them."

Chris started to open his mouth to argue this, but again inhaled through his nose which knocked him somewhat off his determination. He hadn't eaten since that morning and while the idea of eating with Wesker was more than enough to keep him from considering the offer, he hadn't played with the thought of not eating with him. It certainly was a simpler alternative and wouldn't force him to stay in the tyrant's presence – yet he'd still get food. Cooking had never been his forte and though he wasn't _completely_ bad at it, he tended to ignore the fancier stuff. At the very least he was better than Claire, who more often than not would burn a grilled cheese. But Wesker's cooking did smell delicious, better than anything he'd smelled outside of a restaurant, and the offer was difficult to ignore.

"Fine," he snarled, turning around without looking at the other, "But never talk about my physique again."

Wesker chuckled. "If you find it so troubling."

Chris crossed the kitchen to the small island that rested in its center, pulling out one of the chairs and taking a seat. Despite the promise of a meal, he went back to peeling his orange and dropping the chunks of skin onto the table as they were removed. Within a minute or so he had it down to the orb of fruit and started prying the slivers apart, trying to imagine that he was doing a similar violent gesture to Wesker, who had fallen silent. He cleaned his fingertips carefully with his tongue, popping the first slice of citrus into his mouth and crushing it with his tongue and swallowing the juice before chewing the remaining pulp. His attention flicked up to Wesker who was mostly still, save for the occasional movement of his arm as he shifted whatever was in the pan.

"I didn't think you ate," he started, his mind deciding that some kind of conversation was better than just the sound of food cooking. "Seemed too normal."

"On the contrary," Wesker started, his tone somewhat flat in its explanatory mode, "I eat quite often, as my metabolism is faster than that of a human."

Chris frowned a little bit, draining the juice out of another sliver of orange and swallowing the fleshy remains. "And you eat actual food?"

"I don't behave like a zombie, Christopher, why would you expect me to eat like one?"

"How the hell should I know what that virus changed aside from turning you into a psycho?"

Wesker sighed, seeming bored with the confrontation. "I eat most 'human' food."

A brief silence filtered between them before Chris shifted, focusing more on his orange as if that would help him to ignore the irritation with his own curiosity. He shouldn't have cared what Wesker ate or didn't eat, but they hadn't had a decent conversation in eleven years. Truthfully, Chris was less than hesitate to allow anything 'decent' to transpire between them, but something about their argument the day before had him treading carefully. Whatever had happened during that confrontation had shifted some things around in his mind, and he didn't want to do anything that would push that crack further. At least, not before he was sure he had it somewhat sealed up.

"What don't you eat?"

"Chicken, primarily."

"Chicken?" Chris blinked, lifting his head just as Wesker turned off the stove and reached up towards the cupboard beside the fridge. He pulled out two plates, setting one down on the counter and balancing the other in his hand to load food onto as he spoke.

"It has little to do with care for the species. The conditions in which they're raised are often less than sterile and I prefer not to take my chances when there are more suitable substitutes."

It was finally Chris's turn to raise a brow.

"You don't eat chicken because they're raised in 'less than sterile' conditions?" He scoffed. "You've shot bio-weapons in the head before, what's the harm in dirty poultry?"

"I've never _eaten _the various creatures I've shot."

There was a somewhat amused expression on the other's face as he turned around, placing the plate on the island and pushing it towards Chris. Wesker fished a fork and a knife out of the drawer, offering them to Chris handle-first, which he accepted without much hesitation. With the smell even closer to him now, Chris couldn't help the sounds that his stomach made in earnest, but Wesker still didn't seem to notice them so his embarrassment subsided. He pulled the toothpicks out carefully, dropping them off to the side of the pile of cauliflower to be forgotten. Before he put the first bite in his mouth, however, he hesitated, moving his gaze to the slicked blond hair at the back of Wesker's head as he prepared his own meal.

"You didn't—"

"Everything was prepared in a shared pan, Christopher," Wesker remarked in a dull, bored voice. "To poison yours would be to poison mine."

Chris frowned. "One of us isn't known for taking bullets to the head and getting back up."

The tyrant's thin lips had curved slightly at the corner of his mouth when he turned around, taking the chair beside Chris and pulling it to the adjacent edge of the table so they weren't sitting within immediate proximity. Unable to eat until he had a satisfactory answer, Chris watched as he mimicked the actions of pulling out the toothpicks and setting them off to the side of the plate.

"Observant of you, but you can reassure yourself that nothing harmful will come from eating this meal."

He waited, still, until Wesker ate the first cut of meat off of his fork before turning back to his own. His stomach was less than pleased with his hesitation, but again he rationalized it as necessary and decided that Wesker was probably being truthful. At the very least, it went back to the mentality that Wesker hadn't killed him so far and if he was going to, it wouldn't be through poisoning his food. Not when there were more violent ways that he would undoubtedly enjoy more. After the first bite hit his tongue, any previous attempt at resistance was completely pointless – it was too good and he was too hungry to bother being concerned.

It might have been because of the silence that he didn't realize that he'd forgotten to leave the kitchen as he originally planned. Any number of distractions could have added up to that, with his hunger and their brief conversation playing roles as well. But with little more than the occasional clattering of silverware between them and focus on their respective meals, it was almost too easy to forget that they were each sitting in the kitchen with the person they hated the most in the world. That fact probably wouldn't have caught up with Chris until later, when he realized it with a startling sort of terror right before falling asleep, except that he stood up to get a bottle of water from the fridge. Once his hand touched the handle, words were pouring from his mouth before he could stop them.

"Do you want something?"

A surge of tension nearly caused him to choke on the last word. Reality came back to him in a flood and he was almost nervous to look over his shoulder and confirm who he'd been remotely hospitable too. Naturally, however, Wesker's voice was instantly recognizable and it was worse than getting the confirmation by looking at him. He almost flinched.

"No, thank you, Christopher."

If any of the anxiety went away at the fact the other didn't sound amused, Chris couldn't feel it. He pulled open the fridge and extracted one of the bottles of water, stiffly turning and walking back to his seat. Now on alert, even if it was for an inane reason, he realized that the other had called him Christopher again and was wracking his mind. Had he been doing it the whole time? He tried to think of their conversations that had happened not even twenty minutes ago but suddenly everything was blank. He hadn't had any bad reactions to the usage of his full name despite being so pissed about it the day before – this had to be the first time he'd used it today. That was the only explanation.

Instead of sitting back down, he picked up his plate and utensils, heading for the lounge again. His stomach was doing awkward flips for no discernable reason and he'd picked up the plate more in a haze than coherently. Something strange and unnerving had just happened, his entire brain prickled with a tingling sort of numbness that almost made him feel light-headed. He swore he could faintly feel Wesker's amused gaze following him as he left the kitchen, but decided immediately that he didn't want to turn around to confirm it.


	6. Never the Wiser of What I've Become

**Title: **Conviction  
**Chapter Title: **Never the Wiser of What I've Become  
**Series/Disclaimer: **I don't own Resident Evil. I just like to pretend I can write fanfiction about it.  
**Pairing(s): **Albert Wesker/Chris Redfield  
**Story Theme: **Without You - Breaking Benjamin  
**Beta: **My wonderful palinka_femme at LJ  
**Summary: **Hunting Albert Wesker was as natural as breathing for Chris - but maybe his reasons for such a relentless pursuit aren't as simple as he likes to think.**  
****Author's Notes: **Hi, everyone! Welcome back. Hope the hiatus and the holidays (or at least here in the US) treated you well!

Here we are again with Conviction. We're getting into the rough chapters now, and I don't mean just for Chris. They're difficult for me to write too, but I'm trying my best that way we can see the rest of this story through. Considering I've mulled this plot-line over in my head for so long, I'm not going to lie that I have some insecurities. But my only hope is that it makes sense, flows, and you guys continue to enjoy it. Thanks so much for being encouraging and taking time to leave your thoughts in reviews!

Enjoy chapter 5!

- x - x - x -

The same unwelcome nostalgia that had hit him when Wesker first said his full name came again as Chris watched him go through the forms of his fighting style. They weren't kata, because Wesker apparently practiced a form of taekwondo which meant the Korean word was used instead, but it was the same basic principle. Wesker moved with a strange sort of grace that was lost when they were fighting. When they were at each other's throats, everything got lumped together into the word 'attack' and Chris never really considered what that entailed – all he knew was that it was dangerous and coming at him _fast_. But to see him moving so slow was out of the ordinary, and it only became weirder when he could see familiarity in the motions. He tried not to think about it too hard.

But as his eyes scanned over Wesker, he was doing his best to attempt genuine interest. Wesker was still dressed as he usually was, though the shirt looked a bit looser than the ones he usually wore to allow for movement. The sleeves were pushed up and Chris easily noted that the purple splotches on his arm had receded even more since the last time he'd paid attention to them. Now they were little more than a few visible edges poking out from the bunched, black material around his elbows. His face still looked pretty messed up, however, like the skin had been peeled back to expose red-violet layers underneath it. But, even then, he was fairly certain it was healing too.

He sighed and leaned back against the wall, forcing his eyes away from Wesker as if that would help his head to become something understandable again. He was trying not to think about any of it too hard, really, but every day the line between them was starting to get a little less clear. Wesker had always been an inhuman monster that he needed to destroy, and Chris never considered him anything more than that – he never needed to. But living together, even if they didn't see each other every day, was starting to make him realize that his thoughts weren't so solid. Wesker _lived_ like he was human, as far as Chris could tell, and that was a scary thought. It almost put them on the same level, in that aspect, and the last thing he ever thought he would be to Albert Wesker was a _roommate_. But, somehow, their relationship had slipped seamlessly into that definition.

They didn't hang out excessively, occasionally talked, shared a living space, and would eat together once in a while, so he was left up to his imagination on what the tyrant did when they weren't simultaneously in the same room. But since that first meal Chris had eaten food prepared by Wesker at least three times without worry that it was poisoned, though he didn't always stay in the kitchen. He had recently, however, and they shared something close to a civil conversation – which was how he found out that he'd been here for little over a month and that Wesker practiced his taekwondo forms five days a week in the room they were now both occupying. Originally it had been off-limits but, as if knowing Chris would be curious, Wesker had programmed the door to accept his key-code. Now he was sitting at the base of the wall nearest the door, cross-legged, following the movements half-heartedly as his mind reeled with thoughts he couldn't turn off.

If he was honest, it was impressive how high Wesker could bring his leg up before dropping a sharp heel down at blurred speeds. Somehow he managed to stop it before it collided with the floor where it probably would have left a small crater. The motions were so fluid, like Wesker himself was an unbreakable stream of motion. It was surreal how he could be so solid and unyielding, yet able to flow like that. Chris wasn't sure what made him shudder – the realization of how much he attention he was paying to Wesker's body and movements or reaffirmation of how dangerous he was.

He wasn't even sure why he was watching, but it seemed to fit in with the consistent routine of "weird" that his stay had become. Since their meal together almost a week ago, the entire atmosphere seemed to shift between them and Chris was too confused to decide if he should be fighting against it or not. He had never been the type of person to be violent for no reason, but with Wesker there had always _been _a reason. Suddenly there wasn't one; he wasn't attacking unless provoked and he hadn't brought up any plans of world annihilation. Admittedly Chris could be a confrontational person, his temper sometimes got the best of him, but Wesker wasn't even doing anything to get him riled up.

As if to further discourage him, his attention was drawn back to Wesker when he grunted in a rare display of effort. Chris had missed the majority of the motion, but he recognized it as the other landed from a gesture of jumping followed by thrusting his knee up into his invisible enemy's chest or possibly head if they were short enough. He then brought his elbow down, so quick that it looked like it could have cracked someone's spine.

Thinking on it now, he wasn't here because he was curious so much as he'd come to comprehend that spending time alone left him prone to thinking too much on the situation. Everything about this arrangement was messed up and he knew it, he should have been trying to _kill _Wesker before he had another stupid plan to destroy the world, but he wasn't. More and more he found himself making excuses for it and even though they were logical they still _felt _like excuses. He didn't have the means to defeat Wesker and pissing him off to the point he just decided to kill him seemed like a stupid way to go. Especially if he had the chance to survive by doing something as easy as playing nice.

But why did Wesker go through the trouble of getting him to play nice? More than that, if he wasn't being a threat then why was Chris still running in frustrated circles waiting for him to mess up so they had an excuse to fight?

His attention drifted back to Wesker, though this time he was frowning without realizing it. A tension had seeped across him as he stumbled onto more questions that he knew wouldn't get answers. Unfortunately, as with any person that ends up watching someone for an extended period of time, he forgot that Wesker might have noticed it.

"It's rude to stare, Christopher."

It was more the sound of his name than what was said that snapped him out of it, but it was evident by Wesker's voice that whatever he had said wasn't meant to be responded to.

"I told you to stop calling me that."

"You also claim that it does no harm." His voice wasn't at all fazed by the rather rigorous pattern of forms he had been practicing for the past half-hour. "I see no reason to stop."

"Oh, that's right," Chris replied in mock realization, "Common courtesy would probably make your head explode."

"Common courtesy has nothing to do with using your full name."

"It has everything to do with knocking something off when I tell you to," he snapped. It would have been easy to let the conversation go, hearing Wesker use his full name didn't even bother him anymore, but it was something to push at.

Wesker hesitated for a moment, cocking his head slightly to look at him as if considering his words for the first time, before looking forward again.

"Fine, Chris."

He felt like the rug had been pulled out from under him as their potential argument so seamlessly slipped into nothing. What could he say to that - "No, start using my full name again so I can be pissed at you and we can fight?" That didn't even make sense. For a few seconds he was left just gaping at Wesker as the other went back to what he was doing, seeming entirely uninhibited by the fact he'd just given in to what Chris wanted.

He finally settled on, "What do you mean _fine_?"

"I mean that it's fine. If you would rather I use your shortened name then- "

"Since when do you do anything that I _want _you to?" Chris pushed himself to his feet, starting forward and almost getting swiped with an attack as Wesker made it clear he wasn't going to stop for a scuffle. He settled just out of range of his forms unhappily, his expression still intense.

"We've discussed this," Wesker sighed, "I do not go out of my way to antagonize you. The case is often that you give me a reason to do it."

They had discussed that.

While the conversation hadn't been particularly revealing, Chris came to realize that, when it came to the actual fighting part, it was often his own fault. Even by way of the fact he was doing his job – Wesker had never _actually _sought him out the way Chris had over the years. When they clashed it was because Chris had made it so, though he felt no regret for it. At the end of the day Wesker was still a megalomaniac that wanted to kill a lot of people, and Chris was always going to throw himself in the way to stop him. But for some reason, prior to that discussion, it hadn't really sunk in how true it was that Wesker rarely, in his recollection, made the first move. It seemed hard to believe, but more evidence had been provided for Wesker's side than he could think of for his own. While he had a hard time believing that any of their past confrontations would have ended with both of them walking away in good health, now he'd actually started to _question _it.

"It doesn't matter. In the end it's the fact you're an _asshole_ that makes me confront you, so it's still your fault."

"What, exactly, is my fault?" Wesker's eyebrow perked, dropping his new form to turn towards Chris.

"Us fighting."

"Is that so?" Wesker shook his head in a manner that looked like it should have come with the distinct 'tsk tsk tsk' of disappointment. "Chris, I thought we'd reached an understanding. _You _continue to throw yourself in the way of my plans and I'll-"

Again Chris cut him off.

"I'm not talking about your stupid_ plans_, Wesker! I'm talking about _all _of it."

"All of what?"

He frowned, fixing the other with a hard stare as he hesitated, trying to piece together an answer for a statement he hadn't thought through. A small voice in the back of his head told him he was being baited, that something wasn't right in the tone of Wesker's voice. The thoughts of hating him for wanting to destroy the world and kill people had dissipated – he'd been forced to see his reasons were more personal than that.

"Come now, Chris, all this talk of you provoking me being my own fault, you must have a reason for it."

The voice was paying attention where Chris couldn't and trying to warn him when he'd already buried it under so much thought. Wesker's voice interrupting his attempts at finding an explanation wasn't helping either. He noticed him moving closer and naturally backed away, though his movements felt disjointed. They were programmed responses. Not needing to think for them allowed thoughts of dead S.T.A.R.S members to flash through his mind. He groped for an escape, almost instantly he feeling the onset of panic, like lifting up a rock to see a sleeping snake beneath it. His reasons were more personal than S.T.A.R.S. – he'd been forced to see that too.

"What did I do to attract such _hostility_?"

He felt the his back bump against the wall, disrupting his instinct enough to make him stop but not quite snapping him to reality. Wesker was close, within his personal bubble but not doing anything to trigger his reflexes. If his movements weren't slow, then they _seemed _slow, hindered by Chris's mind juggled flashbacks and looking for an answer to a question he'd forgotten. The little voice was still talking to him, but it sounded like it was speaking in a different language and he couldn't decipher it anymore. If he thought about it much, he might have realized that the 'small voice' was actually the one that used to be in charge and somewhere along the line it had gotten covered by so much more.

He squeezed his eyes shut to make the images stop.

"_Christopher_."

When he opened them he realized how close Wesker had gotten – his arm was braced against the wall right beside his head and though he wasn't leaning in, he was still close. Close enough for Chris to feel that his temperature was too high for a human, and close enough to remember their slight height difference. Wesker's presence was solid and controlling, he didn't _need _to lean in close to be intimidating but that's exactly what he was. Chris had forgotten the feeling of _real_ intimidation. BOWs and war zones were scary, they made his heart race and his adrenaline kick in so he could do what he needed to in order to survive, but they weren't intimidating. Not this way and not like Wesker.

BOWs had the power and mind to kill him, to make sure that he never got up again. But that was where their abilities and intentions ended. Wesker had the power and mind to _dominate_ him, which entailed so much more and brought with it an abundance of uncertainty. And yet the most terrifying thing about the feeling was that, in his seconds of hesitation, some part of him knew that he was so close to doing nearly _anything_ Wesker asked of him in that instant. The feeling flooding his senses now was the most basic of things that had compelled him to listen to Wesker back then.

Its familiarity was horrifying in the _security _it brought.

He didn't say anything before his fist connected with the side of Wesker's jaw; knocking him off balance and making him stumble a little ways away. More than that, he didn't stick around to follow it up and immediately ran, as if he were a child that had swore at an adult for the first time. His thoughts were going too fast with images and disconnected realizations to risk staying near the other for any longer. He'd never been claustrophobic, but suddenly he couldn't seem to breathe.

- x - x - x -

_The scariest thing about Lisa was hearing her before he could see her. The entire mansion was much like that – he could hear the groans of zombies or the barks of Cerberus before they were even within his sights. After so many hours in, seeing them just equated to having a target and he blocked out how terrifying the creatures were. But when he could only hear them it filled him with a sense of panic and dread, letting his mind teeter off into ideas of a gruesome death while simultaneously trying to find the thing making the noise. Lisa was just the worst because she was the most horrific to see and nothing he fired at her had done any noticeable damage. It was like she _absorbed_ the bullets. In addition to that she was fast enough to make shaking her off difficult, unlike the slow lumbering of the zombies._

_He ducked around a corner, moving away from the all too familiar sound of the monster and trying to keep from being too loud. Zombies were pretty easy to sneak by even when he ran as long as they didn't see him, but Lisa had already displayed an ability to stop and listen for movement. It was probably how she had followed him back to the mansion from that shack on the grounds – or at least, that's what he told himself. The idea that she followed him based on scent was the last thing he needed to consider because that meant that running from her wouldn't make a difference._

_Chris's heart was pounding so fast in his ears that it was difficult to listen beyond it, his grip tight on the shotgun he'd found a while back. Even if she did absorb the bullets, enough of a blast could knock her away long enough to make a break for it and his handgun just didn't have that type of power. His pace slowed a little bit, keeping his back to the wall and his eyes flickering at every shadow potentially housing a threat. As he came to a corner he hesitated, looking back the way he came before peering around it to make sure there was no threat waiting to jump out at him. When it looked clear, he moved along._

_Continuing through the mansion only seemed to make him cross paths with monsters more dangerous than the last, which was less than inspiring. But despite his hours of wandering, he hadn't seen a sign of anyone else on his team. After stumbling across Forest he was starting to lose hope that any of them were still alive. The dogs had been bad enough, but there was no way any of them were prepared to deal with the kind of things he'd seen. He was surprised he'd made it this far, but he shook the thought from his mind. Staying as silent as possible, he moved through the halls, listening for the signs of any other monsters. Lisa had apparently lost interest in him or had found something else to occupy her – Chris only hoped it wasn't one of the members of his team. Despite that, there were still other threats wandering around that he had to be equally as cautious of. _

_Like the sudden ravenous sounds of a Crimson Head as it quickly rounded the turn ahead of him and spotted the S.T.A.R.S marksman. _

_Chris didn't even have time to curse as he backpedaled, having already taken out one of the enhanced creatures before and having a vague idea of what to do. Bringing the shotgun to bear, he aimed carefully at the creature's head and fired just as a claw came swiping towards him. Fortunately, the creature was knocked back, but the spray of blood wasn't mixed with decaying brain matter which meant that Chris hadn't gotten its head. Keeping his ground he brought the shotgun up again, but his opportunity to shoot was cut off as arms slid under his own and locked behind him. The weapon clattered uselessly to the ground as Chris struggled with the new threat, his adrenaline cutting through his brain in a painful panic._

_Crimson Heads, however, were fast – particularly when they lunged. Chris hadn't anticipated the sudden swell of undeniable pain as its claws cut into his side and tore through muscle and flesh. The creature's enhanced strength easily allowed it to rip him open with one swipe and he tried not to think about his insides spilling to the floor at his feet. It was difficult to say what caused his screaming – the pain or the complete terror at the fact that the swipe wasn't fatal and the creature had no interest in hesitating to let him suffer. He couldn't decide if the area was hot with pain or cold with the onset of inevitably dead cells and blood loss._

_His vision was blurred, though he couldn't sense whether it was tears or simply fear that was causing it, as he watched the monster pull his arm back to try again. He continued to struggle, to throw his elbow against whatever was holding him or knock it off balance, but it seemed completely immobile. As though a tree had grown branches specifically for the purpose of keeping him still as he died. Chris turned his face away from the oncoming attack; no matter how much gore he had seen throughout his life, he had no interest in watching some monster rip him apart._

_But the blow didn't land and the instant when it should have was replaced with a familiar, commanding voice that made his chest tighten._

"Chris!"

He didn't sit upright, a faint weight on his chest prevented him from doing that, but he did wake up suddenly with a sharp gasp that he almost choked on. His fingers were clenched in the sheets but immediately released, groping for the wound he so vividly remembered and finding an immense comfort in the fact it wasn't there. No pain, no sticky blood or horrifying creatures – just him and Wesker in his dimly lit room.

He didn't notice Wesker right away, particularly after he'd moved his hand when he confirmed Chris was awake and not thrashing around in the thorns of his nightmare. Wesker was standing over him, barely within arm's reach, and looking over him the way a doctor might look over a patient that just had a serious coughing fit but insisted they were fine. Though he'd just woken from a nightmare, the previous sleepless nights hadn't endowed Chris with the ability to be as alert as he should have despite the circumstances. His vision was off, a combination of being unused to the light and the faint traces of sweat that were left over from the psychological ordeal, but it didn't take much to recognize Wesker.

A wave of uninhibited relief went through him, mixed with a slight fear that he brushed off as being a remnant of the nightmare. His voice was tired, little over a mumble when he tried to speak, "Captain, I-"

An impossibly warm, large hand found his shoulder and pressed him back to the bed, keeping him from moving beyond the shift it took to find his place again. He looked to Wesker's face again, questioning, but was only met with the usual stoic lines.

"Go back to sleep." It was an order, simple and clean. A small part of Chris wanted to rebel against it, to shove his hand away and say he was fine, but it was buried under the heavy weight of exhaustion. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd fallen asleep. Still, he frowned, his brain acknowledging the fact that they weren't in the mansion but unable to piece together much beyond that. All it could close in on was the fact his captain was giving him an order – an order that, like usual, was the right call.

Wesker's hand pulled away again but he didn't move from his place beside the bed. Chris's dropped his head to the side, his attention finding the door just beyond the edges of his vision. There was still a tension in him, and an unwillingness to listen to the command. He wasn't in the mansion, but his tired brain knew at least that he wasn't somewhere safe. Wesker wouldn't stick around after he fell asleep; he both knew that and didn't want him to anyway. It was creepy to have one's superior looming over them while they were unconscious – though his mind neglected to point out that Wesker must have been doing it anyway if he'd been there to wake him.

"You're safe, Chris." He jerked his head up towards Wesker's again, catching sight of himself in the reflection of his sunglasses. "Go to sleep."

Chris still wanted to argue with him, but he'd be damned if the offer wasn't tempting. It was like the words had flipped a switch in his head that enabled him to find some security and now his brain was all too willing to go back to sleep. There was a small tug at the back of his mind that wanted to fight it, to stay awake just to defy Wesker, but it seemed so stupid. He was tired and Wesker was telling him to sleep, why resist it? More than that, he'd said Chris was safe - what reason did he have to doubt his captain?


	7. I Can't Face the Dark Without You

**Title: **Conviction  
**Series/Disclaimer: **I don't own Resident Evil. I just like to pretend I can write fanfiction about it.  
**Pairing(s): **Albert Wesker/Chris Redfield  
**Story Theme: **Without You - Breaking Benjamin  
**Beta: **The Beta Formerly Known As palinka_femme on LJ (now isten_kardja, still on LJ)**  
Summary: **Hunting Albert Wesker was as natural as breathing for Chris - but maybe his reasons for such a relentless pursuit aren't as simple as he likes to think.**  
****  
Author's Notes: ***Shuffles* Hi guys! :'D?

Sorry that this update has taken so long, and isn't coming with particularly good news. Don't worry, I'm not giving up on Conviction or anything, but I feel that you should all know it'll be going a lot slower from here on out. I aim to finish it by the end of the year, if not sooner. But I've lost my notes for the story, started college, and just need to take a break while I get my thoughts together again.

I plan to write other Wesker/Chris stuff along the way. A few drabbles planned that you guys on LJ will all get to see even if some people on don't are already rolling around in my mind. But Conviction itself is going to be on the back burner so I don't stress myself out on it. Because then I _w__ill _lose interest, and I'm pretty sure no one wants that.

I'm just sorry I ended up doing this on probably the most pivotal chapter of the entire fanfiction. x_X Try not to hate me too much and, as always, thanks for all your support. 3

- x - x - x -

He hadn't woken up angry. It had actually started in the shower.

This entire ordeal didn't have him resting easily, and last night was the first time he'd gotten anything close to decent sleep in almost three days. The nightmare was hazy now and he couldn't remember much beyond the fact that he'd woken up. There wasn't any way to tell how much sleep he'd gotten, due to the lack of clocks, but he guessed it was a good eight or nine hours at least. He blamed that for the sleep being reluctant to leave. It took the warm water splashing across his body to make his mind stir to anything close to a living human being.

As with anyone that hadn't slept well because of a dream, it was the first thing to come in flurries to his consciousness. He could feel the effects of the nightmare across his body – the stiff muscles were nothing compared to the disgusting feeling of cooled sweat. His mind only vaguely tried to pull together the pieces of the nightmare, not much interested in it considering the fact that he'd slept well. That was all that really mattered in the morning after, wasn't it?

He'd never tried recalling his bad dreams; it seemed like inviting trouble and things like that were more risk that they were worth. But some things about last night came back to him almost willingly, and the most important was the faint memory that he'd woken up. It nagged at the back of his mind like an important detail he couldn't recall, and after a moment he gave up trying to focus on his hygiene for something that seemed far more pressing. His forehead touched against the wet tile of the shower, cold despite the steam leaping in curls from the showerhead. It took him a few minutes to block out the feeling of water sliding down his back and steam slipping down his throat, but he managed. After all, the nightmare he could forget, but if anything had happened when he'd woken up – particularly with Wesker around – he wanted to know.

Just thinking of Wesker caused a tension to surge through his muscles and he rotated a shoulder to try to ease it. The reaction wasn't unfamiliar to him; though considering the other wasn't even _present _it seemed a bit of an overreaction. Suddenly paranoia gripped him and he turned around, scanning the visible area before shaking his head and muttering a string of chiding remarks to himself. It was stupid to look, but the idea of Wesker seeing him so vulnerable was unnerving.

_Not much worse than walking around unarmed, I guess._ He sighed and the sound was lost in the warm water splashing at his feet. _Face it; the only way I could be _worse_ off would be if I was unconscious._

His forehead hovered inches away from tile again when the unbearable gravity of a realization shot through him.

He suddenly felt numb.

A new type of rage rushed through his system, searing everything that it came in contact with. It was unquestionably the most intense feeling to ever hit him. Not only that, but he had _reason _for it. For once the feelings weren't coming from somewhere he'd have to identify later or leave to fester at the back of his mind. Oh no, he remembered Wesker in his room last night and even if he didn't recall all of what was exchanged, he knew the most important fact:

In his stupor, he'd called Wesker his captain. And with that came a whole new swell of unpleasant sensations – like the intense sting of being violated.

He knew their entire arrangement had started to become far too comfortable, but somewhere over the past few weeks he'd forgotten that Wesker had a motive. There was _always _a motive. But his life had become so lethargic, so safe, that the idea of something being behind it had slipped onto the back burners. He hadn't forgotten, he knew there had to be a reason for it, but it seemed so much less prominent then it had in their past. There had been no evidence of anything, no proof of something that he needed to fight against or stop Wesker from doing. Yesterday's argument had been the closest thing to a conflict they'd had in weeks and it wasn't about any of the topics he was used to.

The feeling of Wesker so close, the control and power that radiated off of him so naturally, was now thick on his skin. He wished the filthy, dried-sweat feeling would come back if for no other reason than because he could remember Wesker standing practically _against_ him yesterday. Worse was, beyond that feeling were his responses to it: in that second he may as well have been wrapped around Wesker's finger. He still had his wits, he wouldn't have done anything he didn't agree with, but part of him knew that if he'd been given a simple, agreeable order then he likely would have seen it through. Just because _Wesker _had told him to do it, and because in eleven years he had never reacted to anyone else like that before.

He remembered with painful clarity a time when Wesker had been making calls that saved lives, including his on more than one occasion, and that familiar feeling had been there. The fact that it had comforted him in any sense of the word was terrifying, but he knew it was true. With every argument he'd been made to realize something about himself and about the two of them: something he never wanted to admit. Their history had been nothing short of buried all of these years, save for what he needed to think of to get himself through, but now it felt like everything had shifted. He didn't realize it until his screw-up last night. He'd slipped further than he'd ever imagined.

And he was _pissed_.

He couldn't get dressed fast enough, couldn't leave the bathroom fast enough, and couldn't throw his first punch at Wesker fast enough. The damage had already been done and nothing he did would repair it, but wallowing in it was the last thing on his list. This entire damned game was about wishing he could undo things and being forced to realize he couldn't. He regretted almost every step he'd taken since this started and yet was helpless to change them – and helpless to stop from taking another.

All because of Albert Wesker. _Always _because of Albert Wesker.

"You _bastard_!" He snarled, moving forward even after Wesker dodged the blow that had been aimed for the back of his head. He didn't move far, however, just enough that the fist missed and he could turn to face Chris properly. Chris didn't hesitate to throw a second, which caught Wesker somewhat awkwardly on the shoulder.

The strikes were disjointed, he knew it, but he also didn't care. There was an itch along his back that caused all of his muscles to tense into the most hostile string of gestures he could gather. He wasn't even seeing Wesker, not beyond what he needed to in order to know he was hitting the right person. Jolts of impact ran up his arms, but did nothing to cease the furious burn and he didn't care as long as this ended with Wesker bleeding or dead. Nothing mattered beyond that, not why he was doing it or how he did it, as long as the son of a bitch _hurt_. Though a small part of him knew that nothing he did would equate to what Wesker had been doing to him all along, he didn't _care_. It was a _start_.

Frustration mounted with each punch despite the fact that every single one landed, meaning Wesker either couldn't fight back or wasn't trying. Any type of reasoning as to _why_ was thrown out the window. He was so far _beyond _being concerned for his reasons anymore. There were no brief swells of satisfaction for hitting him, no relief at knowing that each one was a few more seconds he had to try to keep the other down. He was made entirely of rage and passed that there was _nothing_. No facility. No world. No psychological games. No fucking betrayal.

Unclouded hatred was the only thing that was real.

It was simple and easy. Something he didn't have to analyze or think about for once, something without a purpose except to make him feel better. _Really _better. Not the kind of "better" that came from hunting BOWs, not the distant satisfaction in knowing he'd made the world a little bit safer. This was mindless selfishness, raw feeling and something he hadn't done in years. He couldn't remember the last time he'd really done something just for himself. He'd wrapped himself in his work for so long, knowing that he was risking his life but not caring because it gave him routine and purpose, that he'd forgotten what it felt like to be selfish. _Truly _selfish.

Something inside of him had snapped into a thousand pieces over what he'd done, over the words he couldn't take back and the feelings he just couldn't change. What made him the angriest – what scared him the most – was the fact that he couldn't find any inkling of desire to deny it anymore. He'd lost, he knew it, but some stupid, _horrifying _fragment inside of him felt like it finally won. After eleven years of suppression, denial, guilt, and regret…it was _free_.

That was when Wesker caught his fist and seconds later, Chris dropped to his knees.

Each breath hurt as he struggled against the feeling of something constricting around his chest. His free hand pressed to the cold floor, barely keeping him upright as his body shook from – what? Rage? Relief? Suddenly his mind was blank and he was terrified by the nothingness in it, an unwelcome bubble of nausea started to form in his gut. It was like feeling useless and helpless at once. Though the fury still fluttered on the outermost edges of his mind, it now remained just outside of his reach.

He tightened his fist, hoping it would pull some of the anger back, but it did little more than intensify the shaking. "What were you doing in my room last night?"

A slight 'hn' came before Wesker's response, like a buffer that didn't do anything.

"I heard you thrashing around when I was walking the halls and decided to make sure you weren't doing anything unusually stupid."

"And why would you care what the hell I was doing?"

Wesker didn't respond to the question and Chris wasn't sure what he expected him to say. He didn't think he wanted Wesker to reply anyway, because whatever the answers were, they weren't going to be ones that he wanted to hear. He ground his teeth together.

"You aren't my captain anymore, Wesker."

"I'm aware of—"

"_Then stop acting like you are_!"

He heard echoes, though he didn't know if it was the room or just his eardrums. Silence hovered between them, allowing the words to bounce around in his head and make his chest tighten. An urge to take them back swelled in his throat like vomit, but he choked it down. Where the desire to try to _fix_ something like that came from, he couldn't be sure. That small bubble of relief was where he put his money, and it only made him want to crush it. He hated Wesker; he had for the past eleven years. That was _over a_ _decade_. Being his case study shouldn't have changed that. It _couldn't_. Not after all this time, not after all the shit he'd done.

"You took everything."

His voice scratched along the inside of his throat, but he still didn't care. He twitched his head to the side when Wesker's fingers tightened on his fist, though they didn't hurt and it seemed more like a reflex than anything.

"What?"

He squeezed his eyes shut just to open them again. "You asked what you did that made me hate you so much. That's my answer."

He briefly considered trying to get to his feet but didn't. It was a waste of time and effort, his body was too drained to even lift his head. He wanted to hate himself, to be angry that he looked so vulnerable in front of Wesker, but the feeling wouldn't come. He was willing to bet it was also the fault of the newly freed bubble of relief, now knotted in his chest after coming in contact with the broken layers of denial. But all he could think about was the mental trip bomb Wesker had placed…and how he'd walked right into it.

"Shit made sense when I was in S.T.A.R.S. I had people to watch my back, a routine I could count on and orders I trusted from…"

Tension clenched his jaw and fist and once again he pressed his eyes as tightly shut as they could get. The silence returned and he wasn't sure if he wanted Wesker to say something or not.

He'd spent years after Arklay rebuilding himself, even as he continued his war against bioterrorism. He had to relearn everything, everyone around him, and make sense of things in a newly chaotic world. Wesker had provided something close to stability back then, and he hadn't realized how much he needed it until it blew up in his face. It quickly became easier to bury himself in his work, where he didn't have to think about anything except the next mission or being stronger so he could handle it. The second he deviated too far, everything turned to shit and he was struggling to find solid ground.

That was why it'd hurt so much to lose Jill. She'd been the most stable thing in his life after S.T.A.R.S went to hell. When she and Wesker went plummeting out the window that night, she'd taken the ground from under him – just like Wesker had eight years before.

His years in S.T.A.R.S were so _sturdy_;after losing his parents and being discharged, why wouldn't he have needed that? Wesker's authority had filled in the blank spots for him, had given him guidelines he could go by when he needed them. He didn't need the okay for everything, but there was a level of order that he could adhere to and a superior he could trust when things got shaky. He didn't have to _drift _when he started working for S.T.A.R.S. As stupid as it was, he'd found where he belonged after going through so much in his life that just didn't fit. In those days he had something _grounding _him to what he was doing.

He _hated_ that it was Wesker and despised himself for letting the asshole give him the _purpose _in life that he'd so desperately needed. But he couldn't change it.

"You yanked the rug out from under me, you son of a bitch!" His fist loosened, sliding out from Wesker's grip to twist and grab the available wrist. He felt warm fingers close around his arm but they didn't do anything beyond that and yet somehow it was enough. The ground still felt uneven when he stood up, but he temporarily forgot how much he was trembling and just shoved Wesker back into the wall. "And there was a fucking _hole _under it!"

"Chris—"

"Just _shut up_!" There was something terrifyingly hysterical going on inside his head; the last thing he needed was Wesker's fucking _voice _muddling it further.

Because now it was happening all over again; he knew what it felt like, but this felt ten times worse. Maybe it was because he didn't have work to throw himself into, or because it was Wesker who had done it. It might have been because it wasn't just the stability of the ground that had been taken this time, but also the walls that he'd worked so hard to build. Either way, he knew this was certainly the worst thing in the world he'd ever experienced because this time_ nothing_ made any sense.

Somehow Wesker had stripped away everything that was logical about their roles, about his life, a _second _time. Wesker wasn't destroying the planet or hurting anyone that he cared about, he wasn't even being challenging when Chris tried to start something. They were existing together, simply, and yet it messed up so much in his head to think that Wesker could ever live in a way similar to him. He was supposed to be a biologically mutated creature, _not _something even close to normal. He wasn't supposed to eat or sleep or have to practice his techniques – but he did. And things were easier when Wesker was a monster that needed to be killed, but now he'd been forced to see that it wasn't the case.

Wesker wasn't human; but he was closer to human than BOW and that epiphany alone was too much.

It meant that there might have been something left for Chris to find in him; something for him to see that would give him back that safe feeling again. In being so close to human, Wesker wasn't just another Licker or Majini to be shot in the head and forgotten as a victim of bioterrorism. He was so similar to the man that Chris remembered, the one that he had admired and needed not so long ago, that the line he'd created was now blurred to the point it didn't exist. It was the crux upon which all his defenses were built and suddenly it was gone, dissipated into thin air, all because of one word at God-knows-when in the morning.

One word that he wanted so much to be accurate. One word that slipped because he wished, with every fucking letter, that the traitor had been _anyone _but Wesker.

His fingers tightened in the other's shirt, the attention of his eyes fixating on one of the buttons just below Wesker's collarbone but not really seeing it. He pushed, shoving upwards so Wesker's body slid up the wall, and lifted the same unfocused attention to his face.

"Why did you bring me here, Wesker? And don't dance around the fucking answer anymore. Just _tell me_."

He watched Wesker's head roll slightly, angle away from him in a patronizing gesture that would have usually created a spark of anger inside of him. "You've kept your eyes tightly clenched against the truth for far too long."

"You're _nuts _if you think this mindfuck of yours changes anything!"

"It already has, Christopher." Fingers closed around his wrists and their heat shot through the muscles of his arms like electricity. He recoiled, but Wesker was less than willing to let his hold go so easily.

"Bullshit!" The feeling of Wesker's grip on him made an unfamiliar panic spark across his mind, his body torn between running away and staying completely still. The instinct to fight for his personal space, for his freedom, had evaporated to little more than particles floating around his head. His brain didn't translate Wesker as a danger and the reaffirmation of the mental shift was an unwelcome one. "I'm not suddenly on your side just because of our past together. I won't stand by and watch you try to destroy the planet again or be one of your fucking lackeys like Excella or Irving!"

"That isn't my intention."

"The hell it isn't!"

Wesker jerked him closer, to the point that their bodies formed a delicate line when Chris inhaled and he could smell that same scent he'd picked up when they fought in the hallway. It seemed like ages ago. But more importantly, he'd been yanked into that same aura of authority and dominance that he'd gotten trapped in yesterday. Only Wesker seemed much less willing to let him escape it and without the mental barricade between them, it came crashing over his senses with a feeling of sickness. Along with a new and horrifying understanding.

Why couldn't Wesker have wanted something as inconceivable as him defecting to his side? He could refute that without question. Everything he'd lost in the past few minutes could have been recovered if it was as simple as turning down his fucked-up Utopia. All the realizations would have been null and void; it would have proved that there wasn't a man underneath the tyrant. All Chris needed was for him to prove it, to just say that his intentions were that kind of devious, then the thought burning at the back of his mind would have been extinguished.

But he hadn't. Wesker wanted something so much simpler.

"You've already realized it, Chris." Wesker's voice sounded impossibly soft, almost like he was trying to be comforting. It was probably his mind playing tricks on him, but he listened anyway. "Stop trying to convince yourself otherwise."

He wasn't sure if he actually said the word "no," though he felt his lips form it even if the sound didn't follow through. The world was dark again as he shut his eyes, shaking his head and fighting to get his hands free. Wesker released them, but he knew more because of the faint pain in his scalp as fingers curled into his hair. At first he didn't even realize they were his own.

"You had to stop fighting yourself eventually."

Once again he found himself on the floor as the burn in his chest turned into a blazing flame that devoured his very attempt at a rebuttal. All of this was supposed to be behind him, forgotten, a part of his past that he had moved on from! It shouldn't have been around to crawl back from some shadowed depth that he'd buried it in for his own sanity – but it _was_.

He had needed Wesker before. The security that had been tucked in the very knowledge of his presence was a requirement that he now knew he couldn't deny. That wasn't the worst of it.

The worst was that now, eleven years later, he found himself wanting that same safety, from the same man, all over again.

Because he'd just never done well alone.


End file.
